Subject: Dreams of Daughters and Little Girls (MF, Mf, Mg, incest, nc, m-solo)
Author:  Dan <whalesrevenge2009@gmail.com 
Posted:  Kelly <pghpa_girl@yahoo.com>

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                                   !!!WARNING!!!!

This file is a work of fiction containing sexually explicit material which may 
include depictions of underage, nonconsensual and unprotected sex as well as 
incest and adultery. It is not intended to implicate any person or action by 
them or me, nor advocate such practices. If you can't separate fantasy from 
reality, get professional help - FAST!

The material is distributed as "For Adults Only" and possession by a minor is 
strictly forbidden.  If you are not legally empowered to be in possession of 
this material, do not read it and delete it immediately.

This work is copyrighted ©2011 to the author. It may be posted with the 
permission of the editor to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area 
of commercial sites so long as no changes are made to the content AND the 
author/editor information is retained.

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Introduction:

Dan is a loving husband and father of three teenage daughter - 16 yo Cheri and the 16 yo twins Amanda and Kathy.  While he claims to have no sexual desires for his daughters, he has more than enough for other girls - especially the young ones.  Even then, his true desires for his daughters slips out now and then.


Table of Contents
   Chapter 1 - The Teen Years
   Chapter 2 - Seven year-Old Pussy
   Chapter 3 - Thoughts About Young Girls
   Chapter 4 - Sex Ed
   Chapter 5 - Child Sex Party
   Chapter 6 - The Case of the House Slut
   Chapter 7 - Tributes to Missy
   Chapter 8 - Tributes to Kathy
   Chapter 9 - Thoughts About My Daughters


Chapter 1 - The Teen Years
==========================

My teenage years occurred in the mid 70's. By 1974 I found myself living in 
unusual circumstances. The environment was closer to the early sixties or (I 
imagined) even the 50's.  There was an English-language radio station but no 
English-language television. The native-language television was state-controlled 
so it was not worth much anyway. But there were  first run movies with only a 
modest delay and even a drive in theater. But teenagers were not allowed to 
drive. The school environment was like a small K-12 private school but it had 
all the advantages of a well funded public school. There were few vices and sex 
was not discussed between adults and kids, except for the birds and the bees 
talk that was brief and to the point.

I was in my mid teens and in our little society, even as a male, I was sought 
after for babysitting which I found to be good and easy money. The adults I got 
jobs from were young, with young kids of varying ages, and had active 
professional social lives based on the nature of their work. One young couple, 
in particular, was vivacious and sociable. They knew how to have fun, but they 
were unusual in one sense. When I showed up at their home to do my job, the very 
attractive wife and mother of an 7 year old daughter and a 4 year old son made 
me an unusual offer to help me avoid getting bored if they decided to stay out 
very late (which they eventually did).

"There are Playboy magazines on the coffee table and other stuff over there." 
She said indicating a nearby bookshelf in the home's living room.

She said this with a helpful and friendly (but oddly enough, neither erotic nor 
sly) smile. In fact her offer was so sincere I found myself stammering "ok, 
thanks" even though I felt the offer was surreal. Supposedly it was the time of 
the "sexual revolution," and it appeared that this woman was a product of said 
revolution. Apparently this meant that leaving sexually suggestive but 
"tasteful" material out was part of being open minded, even to the extent that 
it could be displayed where visitors might view it. (Where I live now this sort 
of thing seems beyond the pale).

Maybe this was no big deal for this couple, but I noted that none of my OTHER 
clients had directed me to their Playboy stash, let alone pointed out that this 
stash was in plain view like coffee table books of the Greek Isles. Nope, this 
was a new one for me.

The husband confirmed with a slier grin that the offer was good (he was a male 
after all and so he must have had an appreciation for what I was thinking). Then 
both of them were out the door. The kids were playing happily by themselves as 
it was still just after American dinner time (early) and so there was not much 
for me to do. I walked over to the shelf where the "other" material was. All I 
recall of an erotic nature was a copy of the "The Joy of Sex" which was much 
more interesting than the Playboys anyway. The illustrations blew me away 
(figuratively). I especially remember the excellent illustration of a man and 
woman having sex in the missionary position with a cut away of his erect, 
slightly curved penis filling the woman's vagina. Wow. That was as close to 
pornography as I had seen up to that point.

As it was my dick could get automatic erections, and this was leaving me 
straining with an erection with no where to take it and no hope of finding a 
place. If I had any sense I would have searched their bedroom for the good 
stuff, but I respected my clients privacy. NOT! I just didn't think about it. 
Adults don't have hardcore stashed in their bedrooms, do they?

I was at an age where girls my age interested me a lot, but I was like many, if 
not most, boys my age in that I did not know how to cultivate the female 
overtures that came my way. Yes, I had had a first kiss. Yes, I had been "boy 
friend and girl friend" a time or two. Yes, I went to dances and had a blast 
dancing to the great music of the time with girls who didn't dance with each 
other, and so welcomed a boy asking them, any boy. And there had been group 
truth or dare sessions with tween girls that were friends of the family that 
involved clinical inspections of private parts. But sex remained something that 
was still a fantasy. I had not been mature enough, or cool enough, to maintain a 
relationship long enough to even work up an "at bat" let alone get on base.

And now I was suddenly, very suddenly, being encouraged by an attractive (at the 
time my eyes saw her as gorgeous) adult female, who had given me her preteen 
children as my charges, to look at sexually oriented printed materials they felt 
comfortable leaving in their living room. What the fuck was going on?

What the fuck was right. I don't recall that this first evening led to an 
encounter with her daughter. Not this night. I got them to bed and then enjoyed 
the magazines and especially the "Joy of Sex" book until the wee hours of the 
morning.

Then came the next babysitting job from this family. Now, with the 
preconditioning well set in, my mindset became strangely more calculating. More 
focused on the preteen girl...

*****************

Kelly,

My recollection of this evening is now very spotty. It was, after all, more than 
35 years ago. But there are at least two memories of that night that I will 
probably never forget. It's not like I immortalize them in the way of some other 
memories:  With the stroke of my cock as a (by now) formula masturbation 
fantasy. No, I don't recall ever feeling aroused by this memory. Now it's just a 
curiosity. Kinda of my one real experience when it comes to children and sexual 
behavior. While the fantasy of children and sexual behavior has, at least 
lately, become a recurring theme, for a longtime the real event was hardly a 
memory at all; because of denial I suppose.

So, what was the first memory of that evening? The prologue may have been that I 
was asked to feed them and I did. But for sure I was told to make sure they got 
their bath. If there was any further offers from a parent about sexually 
oriented materials, I don't recall any. The circumstances were different. Maybe 
mom was going to some girl friend thing while dad was out of town. The nature of 
the dad's work required out of town trips, just as for my dad (they worked 
together in fact). All of this is speculation now because of the limits of this 
human's memory, but none of that is important anyway.

What is important is that I remember giving the boy and the girl a bath 
together. My guess is that mom had told me that they could largely take care of 
it themselves, due to the age of the daughter I suppose. But the unspoken 
expectation, of course, was not to let them drown. Short of that, I shouldn't 
need to do much except enforce the bath commandment.

Apparently, getting them to take a bath was no real chore. My next memory is of 
watching them play with gusto in the bath. The bathroom was typical for a modest 
single-family dwelling. A smallish rectangular room with a bathtub against the 
far short wall. A sink was nearest the door and the toilet sat like a mushroom 
shaped seat between the two. As I watched them frolic in the tub it became clear 
that taking a bath would not be a short stop on the way to bed. I am pretty sure 
that as they played more aggressively, provoked as much by the little boy (some 
surprise) they would look up to me as I stood in the doorway after the latest 
screech and lunge and parry had passed. I think they were expecting "calm down" 
orders but I just continued to watch. Nothing really serious was bothering me 
about their play, so I don't recall saying anything. I just watched.

What was I watching? Well not the boy. His behavior maybe, but not his body. But 
in addition to watching both of their behaviors, I started watching the little 
girl. She was probably about three feet tall at the most with a thin body 
typical for seven or eight year old girls. No definition in her waist or hips, 
of course. Straight like a boy. Round and well formed if smallish butt cheeks 
and an attractive crack where you would expect. It was a very attractive butt 
but not atypical of a young girl her age. Her legs seemed long and thin and well 
formed. And her torso was straight and devoid of any obvious fat. A cute belly 
button and a flat chest with slightly off-colored buttons for nipples no 
different than that of any boy, like her younger brother. Her hair was straight 
and, at this moment of course, wet and sticking to her face, neck and the top of 
her shoulders. She had a narrow pretty face and she was pink and healthy looking 
from head to toe. A very very pretty girl to be sure, but not anything unusual. 
And, of course, in the cleft of her pelvic area was a classic little girl's 
pussy. Pink lips, hairless, and the slit lengthened by her standing position 
with claws out defending herself from the regular lunge like attacks launched by 
her nearly kindergarten age brother.

They battled on with increasing excitement as I applied no brakes to their fun. 
I watched, in a detached way, both  of them. But my gaze began spending more and 
more time on the attractive body of the little girl. And since she was largely 
facing me during her play battles with her brother, I got the benefit of a 
continuous view of her little girl pussy. She showed not the slightest shame at 
being naked in front of me. Perhaps she was getting a tad old for this, but she 
was certainly not so old that it would be considered unusual. And her brother 
paid no attention whatsoever to the state of dress of anybody, least of all 
himself.

As the battle heated up, and my attention and fascination with her increased, I 
moved deliberately from the doorway to the toilet seat where I plopped down on 
the lid. I was in no hurry to end their fun, and the view was better, along with 
the chance of getting sprayed, of course.   I vaguely recall the little boy's 
mouth wide open with joyous fun, full of energy and smarty pants provocation 
toward his sister. I recall the little girl standing in the bath water looking 
at him and glancing at me, as I hawked over her while they played. Nobody seemed 
bothered by the current state of anybody, nor should they have been. Many years 
later after raising three daughters past the age where daddy gives them baths I 
don't recall anything about this particular bath that was unusual or noteworthy. 
Except, perhaps, for my increasing attention to her body, and especially the 
pussy on that little girl. THAT I remember differently from any bath I ever gave 
my own daughters.

But still nothing was done by anybody that would rate a story, or even honorable 
mention in ASSTR. I must have dried them off and saw them to their rooms where 
night clothes were found and put on. Both children by this point were more than 
a little pruned, but their skin radiated a healthy pink glow that felt clean and 
pleasant to the touch, just like my daughters would feel years later.

My next, and basically last memory of that evening, was that I had been talked 
into, or perhaps offered to read them a story before bed. A favorite book was 
eagerly procured and with both of them flanking me I proceeded to read.

The little girl sat next to me to my right leaning up against me but with her 
attention riveted on the book. She was warm and smelled good and as she leaned 
against me I felt more and more attracted to her. Her legs were casually laying 
in front of her as she sat upright in the bed leaning against me. My memory 
informs me that her night gown was a simple pull over made of thin cotton. Thin 
and maybe a little threadbare but not because her family could not afford 
better, but simply because of hard use as a favorite nighttime attire. The hem 
was above the knee when she was standing, but now it was bunched up around her 
upper thighs. Her legs were thin but pretty and then, as though a second person 
was in the room, I saw a hand reach into her lap and pull the hem up. That hand 
was mine. While it was doing the pulling I continued to read and her attention 
did not waver.

If she had panties on I do not recall fussing with them. It seems hard to 
believe that she didn't but I do not remember fussing with panties. I do 
remember seeing that gorgeous little pussy exposed to my gaze. And then I saw 
that hand just plop down in her lap and begin to fondle her pussy. I was 
molesting the little girl while keeping up, somehow, the story reading.

The fondling didn't last long, and I don't remember any specific feature of it. 
In contrast to some silly ASSTR story about "finding the child's slit slippery 
with pussy juice caused by sexual arousal," my memory of this real life event 
leaves no detail save that I was fondling the pussy. Not rubbing her thigh or 
pretending to touch her with no sexual intent. Nope this was the real thing. 
Molesting was my intent and I was doing it. But before I could exploit this 
sudden breach of security of her most private part, the little girl picked up 
HER hand, laid it on my hand, and pulled my hand off of her pussy and deposited 
it back in my lap. Yep, that's what happened. I kept on reading and she never 
turned her gaze away from the book.

But despite these remarkable sequence of events, my hand had a mind of its own 
and was not prepared to take no for answer. Not yet. Next thing I remember, the 
same hand picked itself up from my lap and plopped itself back into the 7 year 
old girls lap to pick up where it had left off. But as I started fondling her 
slit and the outer labia of her preteen cunt, she repeated HER response without 
delay. Picking up my hand with her much smaller hand, she redeposited it back in 
my lap. At no time, in my recollection, did we look at each other. Nor did she 
say anything. The only thing I said were the words that I read out loud from the 
book. She, for her part, continued to concentrate on the story. And from the 
absorbed look on her face she was enjoying every word.

And that was all I remember from the evening. My hand had gotten the message and 
so it kept to itself for the remainder of the evening. She had displayed 
remarkable poise for such a little girl. Perhaps all females are born with an 
instinctive response for the octopus behavior they come to expect from men. I 
don't know. All I know is that the little girl and her brother were tucked into 
bed and I repaired to the living room to await relief with a frustrated boner 
and a room full of "tasteful" sexually oriented publications that were no help 
at all. 


Chapter 2 - Seven year-Old Pussy
================================

After the evening in which I had fondled that little girl's pussy, she a 7 year-
old girl and me a 15 year-old boy, I went home and began to assess how I felt 
about the event.

How did I feel? Like a low moment was intruding in an otherwise no-worry, well 
adjusted life of a fun loving, intelligent boy with plenty of friends and no end 
of things to do that seemed positive in my life. But after that evening, I felt 
like an old fog was returning to my life.

For reasons probably having nothing more than being "stages" of childhood 
growing up, I had had periods of difficulty, especially reflected in academic 
progress. (One of the high points of my life was to eventually complete what is 
commonly viewed as a terminal level of educational achievement, which vanquished 
once and for all my fear of academic underachievement from all those years ago.) 
My problems rocked most notably my 5th and 6th grade years, with some recovery 
in the 7th grade, even though that year began as traumatically to me as any 
before it for reasons of fashionable educational social policy that I won't go 
into.

The dramatic change in the location of my home brought with it an awesome cure 
to the problems in the other place, even though the other place was generally 
viewed as being on the cutting edge of all things dealing with education 
including an unlimited budget to pursue any and all forms of educational 
political correctness. For me, the new location produced an educational 
renaissance even thought the school facilities did not gleam from gold plating.

It wasn't all peaches and cream. I suffered through a period of bullying and 
then my mother and father called me and my brothers and sisters into their room 
to inform us that they were planning to divorce. Both of those events ran their 
course with happy endings. I found new friends that carried me through with much 
joy and fun, aided by strong two-parent families that were common in my 
community. My family kept both its parents, too. Two years ago we celebrated 
their 50th wedding anniversary.

Life got good, very good. There was travel to interesting places. Vacations in a 
part of the world that to this day is known as a world class vacation 
destination. Exposure to history and art (some under duress!) that left big 
impressions. And, through it all, a slowly developing, and certainly tame, 
introduction to females. Things like: How they act. How I felt around them. By 
what means could amorous advances be communicated and received. What to do about 
such advances when they were directed at me. What their body parts looked like 
(through games of truth and dare). For the most part, I did not pursue a 
relationship with a girl until later in high school; but the result of the 
pursuit surprised me:  Lust-filled sex and exposure to younger sisters that in 
one case threw herself at me without shame or restraint. When it came to 
pursuing female relationships, my immature frame of mind left me mostly 
reactive. And, as you can probably imagine, that left me at a disadvantage if my 
goal was sexual relations.

But was it? Certainly I was sexually active in the sense of fantasizing and 
masturbation. That had been going on ever since I could remember (at least the 
third grade). And by now I could not bear the thought of not masturbating every 
night. But there was no internet (it was in the process of being invented at the 
time) so there was no easy access to pornography, or any other information or 
stimulation, save ones parents. And that varied from family to family. I 
certainly didn't get the parents that used Playboy magazine as a coffee table 
ornament. But if I had wanted to talk about sex, I did not realize how willing 
my parents probably would have been. And not just clinical aspects either. I 
only began to understand where my mother's sexuality may lie on the slut scale 
until years later at family occasions with her adult children and their spouses 
around the table after she had perhaps enjoyed a bit too much wine. We were all 
adults and she knew we were sexually active (duh!) and so what the hell, she let 
her hair down. Some of the stories make me shake with laughter as I write this, 
but at the time caused dismay and protests of "too much information" from around 
the dinner table. Which is why it's so funny:  The randy grandmother making the 
modern marvels of sexual enlightenment uncomfortable with stories of 
masturbating dogs and the suggestion to her daughter-in-law (my brother's wife) 
that a turkey baster could deal with the timing issues of conceiving a second 
child while he pursued his busy career.

Anyway, I should have known about her openness. The clues were there. How many 
mothers do you know exposed their elementary school aged children to Haight-
Ashbury in 1973? An interesting feature of my mother is her religious piousness 
and her love and appreciation for all things classical. So that meant she could 
organize a day trip into San Francisco to see a traveling show of classical 
nudes at the Metropolitan museum of art explaining that the female body form is 
an ancient subject of art and then field questions from her initially aghast, 
but then excited, older sons about whether she would have posed in Playboy when 
she was younger if given a chance. (The answer "maybe.")

Another time she took one of our teenage babysitters from the church that she 
was a devoted and very active member (to this day she visits friends and the 
church during regular trips back), along with me and at least one other brother 
on a day trip into the city for sight seeing. The teenager wanted to see what 
all the "hip" fuss was about and so that where ever we actually went that day, 
it probably included a glimpse of the Haight-Ashbury scene. The teen picked up 
an underground newspaper and she got annoyed at me when I tried to read over her 
shoulder some of the more smoldering classified ads. She tried to shoo me away 
with only limited success in the confines of a station wagon. "You're too young 
for this!" was what she said, when in fact she was really just embarrassed to be 
observed snapping up the content.

Later, after the "molesting" episode that is the spark for this epilogue, my 
mother "dragged" me and my brother to the follies in Paris. Most Las Vegas 
"naughty" shows are tame compared to the follies; and I was 16 and so erotically 
aroused that I had no choice afterward but to masturbate while lying next to my 
mom in the king sized bed that lack of planning and fate had left us on this 
short two-night trip. She never said anything so I don't know if she noticed, 
but I have to assume she must have. There was no way to be discrete about THAT!

So, there you have it. My mom was an unused resource for helping me "mature" 
into the lady killer my fantasies wanted me to be. When I think back on that 
very formative time I'm not sure if that period "made" me or simply "revealed" 
me, but there is no doubt that the inhibitions that I carry in the context of 
amorous relationships and the acquisition thereof, down to this day, worked 
against me snagging what could have been a lot more of.

But was that all bad? After all, I do not recall any forum or mechanism for 
gaining access to birth control during that period of my life that can be 
considered "easy." Perhaps all I had to do was "ask" the right people, who were 
trained to leap on the request with the need to avoid teenage pregnancy that it 
foretold, but I didn't know who they would be except my parents. If I didn't 
know about it, I didn't need it either. Did anyone else? Maybe, but I think the 
reality is that not much fucking was going on. "Dating" was not really a big 
opportunity even for the upperclassman. The minimum driving age was 18, one 
piece of oppression we complained about but could do nothing about. There were 
well attended and fun dances, and summers around a large community swimming 
pool. The bikini clad vixens that I ignored, even to the extent of turning away 
one persistent girl who was trying to capture my attention by hanging around me 
with the hottest bathing suit local standards at the time would permit, 
illustrates my frame of mind. But life was good. I was physically active with a 
thin but wiry body as were my friends, so while we were not jocks nor "popular" 
it was more by our own choosing. I participated in school sports and the debate 
team. I even took honorable mention in a school talent contest in which I did 
stand-up comedy in front of a big audience. And I had access to school "trips" 
that even now would be considered pretty good by college students on study 
abroad programs. This included a trip to Amsterdam in the swinging 70's before 
the internet and DVD's turned the place relatively tame. Heady times for a 
teenage boy.

And yet every night, practically no matter what, I masturbated to lurid 
fantasies. So here was the dilemma. By day, I was too shy and distracted to 
seize the opportunity to seduce the young teenage girls who, by evidence of 
their wild attempts to call attention to themselves, were boiling with sexual 
energy. By night I dreamed of fucking them.

Is it any wonder, then, that I had a moment of weakness with the 7 year old girl 
that was in my temporary charge? In my state of mind, it was all too easy for 
the two conflicting personalities to coexist for a short moment allowing me to 
feel like I was having an out of body experience as I watched my hand 
deliberately reach over and fondle the girl. And I did. Twice. And her reaction 
seemed to me to show a polite rejection of the fondling. It did not seem to be 
with prejudice. She did not act offended, as a grown woman would certainly do 
under similar circumstances. Unless the context was already amorous, like making 
out, in which case a grown woman would probably have acted exactly as the little 
girl did if all she wanted to do was discourage "going too far."

However, I don't think the little girl's reaction was reasoned out like that. I 
think it was more like a reaction to a fly landing on her skin. She was removing 
the annoyance so she could concentrate on what she wanted to do, which was 
listen to the story. But I didn't see it that way. I was racked with remorse. 
Plain and simple.

What was the nature of the remorse? Was it because I felt I had "sinned" and now 
I needed moral reconciliation? Maybe. I have experienced periods of my life 
where I sought such reconciliation and meaning. But this was not one of them. 
For example, for another client I took care of their baby girl. I had to change 
her diapers and minister to her other needs, like feeding. These parents were 
like the others, staying out what seemed to me all frigging night and leaving me 
with long boring spans of time with nothing to do (remember, no television). It 
would be only natural that I brooded about girls, and pussies, and fucking. So 
when the baby awoke for a diaper change, I changed it and then decided to 
examine the plumbing in greater detail. In hindsight I don't feel bad about this 
at all. What the fuck? I cleaned and powdered the baby like any other adult. So 
what if I spread the baby's pussy lips to examine what was "inside"? The mother 
probably did that routinely to look for rashes, etc. My INTENT, to be sure, was 
different, but what I did was not. I did not have sex with the baby nor was I 
interested in doing so. I was just curious. I had no "moral" qualms about 
pulling the baby's pussy lips apart, so why should I have had them about 
fondling the 7 year old, especially when I had "respected" her wishes?

My unease, then, was not due to feelings of "sin." What were the feelings? 
Remorse, that much I remember for sure. But if I did not feel remorse for doing 
something "wrong" then why? Fear, plain and simple. Fear of the girl talking and 
then her mother talking to my mother. You get the picture. But, in the end 
nothing happened.

However, my memory tells me that I was never asked to baby sit for them again; 
even though I don't recall why. Maybe it was because their regular sitter became 
available again. Maybe the girl did say something to her mother, but the mother, 
not being sure what had really happened, chose simply not to use me again. (This 
idea stayed planted in my head long enough to resurface at a crucial moment much 
later.) On the other hand, it was not uncommon for me to do a few jobs and then 
not get any more from a particular family. On top of that, I was not really 
interested in working that much. And the long nights waiting for the damn 
parents to come home got vexing. For instance, I turned down with hardly a pang 
of remorse a desperate mother who had kept me up too late the night before and 
then needed someone to stay with her kids the very next morning. She had to get 
me out of bed to take her call. I turned her down over the phone repeatedly even 
though she literally begged. So much for that customer!

Considering all the possibilities, I don't think fondling the little girl 
resulted in any immediate consequences. And yet the fear persisted. Maybe she 
would talk someday? I just hoped it would never come back to haunt me. When we 
left this temporary oasis to return to the United States in 1977, I forgot all 
about this incident, being fairly certain that I would never ever see this 
family again. Boy was I wrong! And not only that, but the circumstances 
surrounding the initial moments of the recontact involved sex. At least this 
time I was having it. In my memory it makes for an interesting episode because 
now I realize what the fear cost me. In business, we would call it "opportunity 
cost" and that surely was what it ended up being for me.

It will require further thought and effort to write up the last act of this 
story that began with a wayward hand on a 7 year old pussy. If you're still 
interested, let me know.  I'll undertake the job of completing the story with 
enthusiasm.

******************

"Here?"

"You mean, like, they're coming here for the weekend?"

That was my incredulous reply to my mother's news as I lifted my arm and curled 
a finger in the general direction of the kitchen floor.

My mother followed up. "Yes, honey. Anything wrong with that? Mr. P is passing 
through town on their way to their next assignment and I invited Mrs. P and the 
whole family to stay the weekend at our house. You remember the P's, don't you?"

So what was I going to say to that? While I wouldn't call them close friends, 
Mrs. P and my mom were probably the best acquainted between the two families. 
And Mr. P had indeed been my dad's coworker in the last place we lived. 
"Coworker" is not really the right way of putting it. "Subordinate" in an 
institutionally hierarchical organization would be a better characterization. 
And, of course, there was my baggage. This was about three years after I had 
helped myself to a little extra compensation from the P's young daughter, and 
now I was going to get to face the music for an entire weekend in MY home.

Well, it wasn't really my home. I was already in that slow transition from it 
being "my" home to it being the home I was welcome to live in by the two people 
who's home it really was. I was a senior in high school during the spring of 
that right of passage. And I knew I was going off to college in another city. 
And I was already spending a lot of time outside of the home. For instance, in 
the home of my nearly 17 year old girlfriend, who was one year behind me at the 
high school we shared. And when I wasn't there after school, I was at work in 
the evenings busing tables in a local hotel restaurant. Between school, a 
girlfriend who was grooming me for domestication, and a night job, I was a 
walking zombie during the week. My mom wasn't always happy about the number of 
meals I missed at home. But she was busy with the career she had always wanted. 
My dad was in the middle of a demanding assignment in his job, and I required 
less care and supervision than my two brothers and a sister, all younger than 
me.

Hence, I shrugged my shoulders and made some happy noises to my mother about 
being glad to see the P's again and oh my it's been so long since we last saw 
them, and, speaking of that, I really never expected to see THEM again. But now 
I knew I would. And it was this weekend, too. That's when the old "fear" 
suddenly, and unexpectedly returned.

I think, based on the perception I may be leaving, that a little calibration of 
this particular "fear" is in order. I was not "scared." Scared I have been since 
that time, so I think I know what "scared" is. "Scared" is a fear of imminent 
death or injury.

For instance, take the second skydiving jump I made while in college. The wind 
was strong and the conditions marginal on takeoff but we went anyway. The jump 
master released me late and with all of the forward travel of the parachute into 
the wind, I was still drifting toward what sure looked like those high-tension 
power lines they warned us about during ground school. Despite not yet being 
cognitively aware of the "picture" that one has when they are going to collide 
with another object (it gets bigger without drifting up or down or to one side 
or the other), I instinctively knew I was sure to land right in the middle of 
those lines if everything stayed the same. So I started trying to make things 
not stay the same, and to make a long story short, I spilled enough air from the 
chute to land a few yards shy of the feared power lines. It turned out that they 
were abandoned power lines; the active lines were on the other side of the 
airfield. But my colleagues, upon finding me walking out of the clump of trees 
that I had landed in clutching my billowing chute with just a few scratches and 
a sore leg from falling once the branch that had first caught me broke, assured 
me that landing in an abandoned set of power lines was just as dangerous as the 
live ones because they could spill the chute and send you falling to the ground 
from too high up. Whatever, I just remember being real scared and mumbling to 
myself on the way down as I worked to save my skin "I'm going to die! I'm going 
to die!"

Well, I knew I was NOT going to die this weekend. At least not from confronting 
my accuser. Assuming anyone was going to accuse me of anything anyway. In fact, 
let's get real. NOW I know, with the hindsight of the weekend past and many more 
years beyond that, that nobody but me remembered anything about this event I 
feared being exposed for. It is so obvious with the help of experience and 
hindsight that a 7 year old probably never registered the original pussy 
fondling incident in anything but short term memory. Only if, and it was a big 
if, she had told her mother at the time of the event would I be in a kettle that 
weekend. But the vague fear told me otherwise. It warned me that when the little 
girl caught sight of me, I would be busted. Or, if the mom knew, she might make 
inquiries. It was unsettling to say the least.

An illustration of why I should NOT have concerned myself was revealed years 
later not long after I was married. Despite my general apathy to overt efforts 
to pursue girls during the period of my overseas residence (although I certainly 
fantasized about it), I had uncharacteristically secured a girlfriend. Her name 
was Cheryl and she was sooo pretty to me (I was in the tenth grade at the time) 
that she broke through my shyness. The usual "he likes you" "she likes you" 
correspondence between intermediaries produced an agreement to courtship. That 
lasted maybe a week and then she dumped me. It was just as well since other than 
maybe hanging out at lunch and going to the monthly dance together, just what 
did courtship involve in that place? Not much unless it involved disappearing 
into the bushes. That was not an option for us and so I was soon a casualty of 
the changing mind of a young, hot looking teenage girl who could, and did, move 
on.

Like a comet that periodically returns to light up the sky, the nature of the 
place we had first met brought us back into proximity to each other long after 
both of us had returned with our families to our native land. In fact, the next 
time I saw her after returning was at my own wedding! Her family was invited by 
my parents. It turned out we were also going to the same university (given the 
city, and the professions of the fathers, not that big of a coincidence), 
although by then I was in graduate school while she was an undergraduate. After 
marriage I had a chance to see her on campus and invited her to lunch. Kinda to 
my surprise, she accepted. During lunch, I couldn't resist asking her if she 
remembered that we had "dated" back in high school. Imagine my consternation, 
staring at this coed who was, if anything, even more beautiful than when I knew 
her then, when she laughed and said "Did we? Honestly, I have no recollection of 
that." Well, THAT cut me down to size! (On a sad note, this past June while on 
our annual beach vacation, I asked my mom about that family. She told me that 
Cheryl had long ago begun suffering a mental illness that seemed to be a severe 
form of depression. Her father had gone so far as to buy her a condo so that she 
could have some measure of independence. Knowing the answer in advance, I asked 
"Did she ever marry?" My mom nodded her head sadly in the negative. Frankly, I 
would have pursued her myself if I was not already getting married the very next 
time that I saw her. Did I dodge a bullet? I almost feel guilty asking.)

So why, exactly, did I really think a seven year old was going to remember her 
pussy getting fondled and shooing my hand away twice? It escapes me now how to 
justify this feeling of foreboding. And it's a shame too, because if that old 
fear had not been inoculated in me, I wouldn't have gone into that weekend with 
a worry about the unknown. And that fear of the unknown created in me a 
suspicion of the motives of the two people in that family I feared the most. The 
daughter, of course, was one of them. But I was suspicious of the mother too. 
Would she, like detectives from the show Law and Order, be searching for a way 
to get me to confess? Unfortunately, my suspicion cost me big time. It cost me 
probably one of the more interesting opportunities to nail an unusual fuck in my 
then young life. Not with the daughter; nope that was not in the cards. It was 
the mom-I'd-like-to-fuck (MILF) that got away. Or, more accurately, that was 
pushed away. By me.

Before I cry myself to sleep, let's set the story straight. I had already had a 
nice fuck that day. The sweet 16 girlfriend, whose name was Sandra but I always 
called her Sandy, when I wasn't calling her Sissy like her younger sisters did, 
had been more than willing to join me for a nice steamy roll in the hay after 
school. Well, it was a tad more civilized than that. We were in my bedroom. 
Downstairs. Way in the far corner of the house that was the farthest away from 
my parents' master bedroom. It had (and still has!) a sliding glass door that 
opened out onto the back porch, with an easy walk up the hill to the road where 
my car might be parked awaiting me. Yep, I had bragged about that set up to my 
friends, who then called my bluff more than once by banging on that sliding 
glass door to spirit me away to some deserted lot to drink beer and grow up. Not 
that I needed the backdoor for this particular piece of afternoon delight.

The arrangements had been settled in the context of a busy three ring circus 
that was my family's life at the time. I was the only one of the kids who could 
drive, and on top of that, I had purchased my own "antique" car in an advanced 
stage of decomposition; but it still ran. Both my parents had full time jobs in 
a metropolitan area known for its rush hour gridlock. I do not recall where my 
younger siblings were but it was a Friday afternoon and my mother had asked me 
to be sure to come straight home after school because our house guests were 
scheduled to arrive in the afternoon before she or my dad could reasonably be 
expected to make it home from work. This was a nice set up for me so I eagerly 
agreed. And in the context of this epilogue, I clearly demonstrated that I was 
not controlled by my "fear" of these house guests. At least not at the expense 
of foregoing a relatively safe bet that I would be pumping a nice piece of pussy 
before they arrived.

You see, this girlfriend was exacting a heavy price for parting with sexual 
favors. Not that she didn't like sex herself. She loved most aspects of physical 
love. She especially liked long sloppy sessions of making out; the kind in which 
the saliva would run down our chins like a waterfall. One time later in our 
relationship she wanted to make up for lost time while I had been in my freshmen 
year of college. So she insisted that we sit on the couch in her parents' living 
room and make out with full tongue down the throat and whatever groping sexually 
active teenagers might throw in for good measure. But with her father sitting in 
a recliner chair not two and half feet away, I drew the line.

"Gee Sissy, not HERE, for God's sake! Your dad is sitting right THERE!"

"Come on, Dan! HE doesn't care. Kiss me you fool!" (As corny as it sounds, 
that's pretty much what she said.)

But back to the price I had to pay. Since I had a car, and her house was 
conveniently on my way to school (later I grew to regret this convenience), I 
picked her up in the morning, and I dropped her off in the afternoon. Except I 
found myself getting dragged into her house while she helped mind her younger 
sisters and a brother until her mom got home from work. I didn't have to do 
anything, and that was the problem. I sat there in mind numbing boredom while 
the afternoon ticked away. My only respite was purchased through my own courage 
to bolt. But that required a pretext. My job was a good one, but that of course 
meant I had to go to the job. Finding other reasons to split when I was not 
scheduled to work was a challenge. So some days I sat in front of the TV and 
watched hers and her older sister's soap and moldered. When I was in college my 
roommates, especially one of them, was hooked on the soap "The Young and the 
Restless." I despised it, but despite that I was completely familiar with the 
plot and the characters due to these girlfriend enforced afternoons watching it. 
And then even more years down the road after I got married (not to her!), my 
wife's older sister lived with us for a few years while working a day job and 
going to school at night. She was hooked on the same soap which she would record 
on a VCR and watch when she got home. I was amazed at how quickly I could pick 
up the plot after literally years had gone by not watching the damn show.

So the set up was that, unlike usual, I had to go straight home from school and 
await our house guests from "long ago" (nearly three years is a long time to a 
17 year old!). I told Sissy that she would come with me and then I would get her 
home as soon as they arrived and I could let them in and they could be made 
comfortable. Naturally, this was not a rationalization that I needed to persuade 
my girlfriend with. This tripe was intended for her mother. And it worked. 
Hence, we went straight home to an empty house and kept going, straight down to 
my bedroom where we got down to business. I had no idea when exactly these house 
guests were supposed to arrive, but any minute was a possibility that I warned 
her about and so she was sensitized to the "danger" of getting caught. So with 
my cock plunging in and out of her incredibly wet and hot cunt, and with my 
orgasm seconds away from flooding her vaginal cavity and her entire pelvic area 
with a seventeen year-old's bloated prostate full of cum (it's incredible how 
much her pussy made me cum, nothing in masturbation had ever come close to those 
mind-blowing orgasms), she suddenly says, "Did you hear that?"

No, I did not hear that. I feared that I might have should have heard that so I 
slammed another couple of strokes of my impossibly hard and thick cock into her 
little slice of vaginal heaven and released my pent up flood of sperm swimming 
in a vast supply of seminal discharge. Just like untold millennia of evolution 
had made instinct, I went deep and held it there while every last drop of cum I 
could ejaculate into her body, and then ooze when the spurts stopped, was sent 
its merry way. That's when I heard the sound. And even though we were far from 
the front door down in my little love nest in the home's walkout basement, the 
sounds of the knocking came through. She was already in a panic but she was 
pinned underneath my orgasmic body. When I identified the sound myself, I leaped 
off of her and landed standing on the floor like I had been slapped on the butt.

"Oh shit! Sissy, we got to get upstairs and let them in! We gotta get dressed 
NOW!"

******************

(Note: The following description gets into more detail than I would normally 
prefer. I'm not trying to demean anyone or to represent sex as dirty. I just 
felt I needed the detail here so that when I share with the reader a later 
uncertainty, you will be prepared to draw your own conclusions.)

"Oh shit! Sissy, we got to get upstairs and let them in! We gotta get dressed 
NOW!"

It wasn't like she needed me to tell her THAT. She didn't say a word, but 
quickly swung her legs off the bed and sat upright reaching for her panties that 
had been discarded onto the floor in the first carefree minutes of lust, now 
forgotten.  While I fumbled, with less aplomb than her, with my underwear, she 
straightened out her little teen panties and stood up to slip them on. I was 
standing and it was only natural from where I stood and how I was hunched over 
fumbling with my jeans that I was looking straight down onto the shiny surface 
of my bed cover where she had just been sitting. I slept in a narrow twin bed 
that had been part of larger set, including a second bed that no longer fit in 
the long narrow room. The bed cover was pure teen boy. A shiny, thin, double-
layered fabric colored in shades of green with a camouflage print that was made 
into a man-sized sheet. It was a gift from my father and I pretty much cherished 
it. But where my freshly fucked girlfriend had been sitting was now a large 
circle of slime about three inches in diameter. Fuck slime.

It wasn't the first time she had left "our" mark on the spread (hey, I'm trying 
to be fair). And it wouldn't be the last. In the past when I came back a little 
while later the circle had always disappeared almost by magic. The fabric had 
something to do with it, being a sort of forerunner to Gore-Tex. But fuck slime, 
a naughty mixture of vaginal secretions and semen, dried when left on it's own. 
It's not like I cleaned up the mess. That was not my inclination. And it never 
seemed to be hers either. Not that I expected her to clean up my bed. But she 
didn't bother with herself either.

Ok, so what? When we had sex, it was always a bit clandestine. We were not 
married (and we were not destined to be, despite her persistent prompting) and 
so she didn't have the luxury of using the facilities like she owned the place. 
That's my wife's style. No sooner than I roll off than she's rolling off the bed 
heading to clean up. I don't because I kinda like the residue of sex. But I know 
that snuggling up against HER with a slimy dick in the back is not her idea of 
post coitus quality time. And, really, after more than two decades of marital 
relations, can anyone blame her?

Other girls that I fucked before I got married all seemed to treat this part of 
the process differently, so mind you I am making no value judgments here. But 
after we fucked, Sandra, or Sandy, or Sissy (whichever your prefer) seemed to 
feel my same urgency to move on to the next thing. So up would go the panties 
and off we would go without so much as a wipe. It had to be a slippery way to 
go. I've already mentioned how much her young pussy extracted ejaculate from me. 
And she loved fucking too. In fact she was willing to take a lot of risks to 
feel my cock slip into her. Or for my tongue to eat her out. Or to make out like 
honeymooners in front of her father. (Ok, I already mentioned the last one.)

The degree of sliminess that she was apparently willing to accept following 
fucking was brought home to me before this particular event. I liked to finger 
her before fucking as part of foreplay. She seemed to like it too. In fact, she 
seemed to like just about anything except sucking my dick (sigh). So, after an 
earlier fuck in that same bed I was in a fog of post-fuck curiosity. After 
finishing in her I stuck my finger back into her hole. I quickly pulled it back 
out recoiling at the slimy feeling of her incredibly juicy hot box augmented 
with a young man's fantastic load of cum. So I knew what she was like "down 
there" this afternoon.

We finished getting dressed in a struggle and then pounded out of the room and 
up the stairs out of the basement. I led, she followed and we must have been 
quite a sight as seen through the sidelight of the front door. The floor to 
ceiling sidelight looked right at the landing of the stairs that emptied into 
the short hallway leading to the front door. I have been up and down those 
stairs, and walked through that hallway, many, many times since this particular 
incident. I will be walking through it once again later this week when I travel 
back to my parents home to stay for a couple of nights while on business. I can 
promise you I will be laughing as I do while thinking about the time I did it 
with Sissy in tow.

What that slightly worried set of house guests were thinking while standing at 
the front door they had been knocking on for awhile can be easily guessed. To 
all intents and purposes, the house would have looked like nobody was home, even 
though they had been promised that somebody would be home. This was the age of 
NO cell phones, so the feeling of "what do I do now" would have surely produced 
a rather impatient look through that front door sidelight in the now 
increasingly forlorn hope that somebody would be home after all. And then, 
suddenly, two teenagers of the opposite sex are spotted pounding up the stairs 
in a fluster and racing to the door to open it and welcome the expected visitors 
into the house.

Hmmmmmm. What would be going through my mind now if I had just witnessed the 
same thing?

It's actually rather amusing to see young children be genuinely amazed when 
adults seem to be able guess right out of thin air what they have been up to 
that they are trying to keep secret. But I was not a child, so the other version 
of this awkward game played out. Let's all stand around and act like we don't 
know what we all know. Or at least think we know. But what they were thinking 
was not immediately obvious to me.

The details of this first meeting are lost on me. Like how they walked in. When 
I saw the now nearly 10 year old daughter. How everybody, all six of us, ended 
up in the kitchen crowded around each other rather close. Yep, those details are 
missing. What's not missing is the image that I will go to my grave with. Sissy 
is standing next to me near the sink. She's not hiding behind my shoulder like 
you might expect but just standing there with me. Their kids (daughter and 
younger son, now almost three years older) are somehow in the background. I 
don't really see them clearly in my memory of the event. Why? Well, for one 
thing I was doing all I could, and I would continue to do so for the remainder 
of the weekend, not to draw attention to myself with the girl. I had younger 
brothers and a sister. My sister was older than her but not by much, so as soon 
as they hooked up they were a pair. For now, I basically ignored her and the 
boy, at least that's what my memory reports.

The parents were another matter. There was chatter. Introductions: "This is 
Sandy, my girlfriend. Sandy, this is Mr. and Mrs. P." (I would have actually 
used the formal salutations, it was ingrained in me.) They would probably have 
answered with a handshake and protests to use their first names. They both 
looked pretty much like the last time I saw them. Young and good looking, 
although not childlike young as Sissy and me. Mrs. P was really by most measures 
a hot looking lady, at least as lady's probably more than 15 years my senior 
went. I had always admired her sexy looks and maybe even jerked off thinking 
about her. Who knows? I did so much of that.

Anyway, pretty soon the small talk started to wander and we were left mostly 
standing there. Mrs. P happened to have ended up standing kind of close to 
Sissy, with me standing closer to Mr. P. Not too big of surprise if you think 
about it. The sexes often sort themselves out like that. And the kitchen had a 
smallish feel to it on account of the kitchen table that we took most meals on. 
It was in the middle of the already smallish room. My mom, in fact, hated it. 
Quite a number of years later she remodeled the whole thing, including taking a 
wall out that separated the kitchen from what was meant to be a formal dining 
room that was also just a bit too small and crowded. And dark. Too dark for my 
mom. But Mrs. P and I would finish this story in that dark, smallish dining room 
later on that evening. It would bring closure to my whole mental thing that had 
built up over fondling her daughter's pussy those few years ago. But I'm getting 
ahead of myself.

For now, it was still afternoon and the sun was coming in through the kitchen 
window enough to make the kitchen pleasant enough. I was standing in rather 
close proximity to Mr. P, and Sissy was standing in rather close proximity to 
Mrs. P. Mr. P was talking rather rapidly and randomly as was his way. Mrs. P, on 
the other hand, was not saying much at all. She was just standing there. Looking 
at me. And then looking at Sissy. And then I thought I saw her nose wrinkle a 
bit and a faint, sly smile came over her face. That was my cue to escape before 
it got any worse. Mrs. P was obviously on to something.

Like I said, in hindsight, how could she not be? Just the sudden appearance at 
the top of the stairs was a dead giveaway. But, I think the smell of sex was 
filling the room and the same woman that had introduced me to The Joy of Sex 
(the book, not the real thing) couldn't have missed the olfactory evidence, 
could she have? After all, Sissy's panties, thighs, butt crack, and vulva were 
drenched in post-fuck juice. That much I was sure of. That meant it was time to 
hustle her out of there and get her back to her home. Before her mom got worried 
of course.

In the context of the subject of this epilogue, what is crazy is that I should 
have worried at all about my mom finding out about a few seconds of little girl 
pussy pawing three years ago when at least ONE of the house guests, and the one 
that was the best acquainted with my mom to boot, was probably asking herself 
about what sexual activity had delayed us getting up those stairs and that was 
now filling the room with "evidence." Think about it: Two "modern" women who 
could talk to each other about anything (I'm guessing on that last one). 
Shouldn't I have been worried about explaining the current events, not the well-
in-the-past ones? However naive I was, that was NOT how I thought about it.

Well, I am a man.

So, I excused us both and drove Sissy back to her home. After a rather distant 
peck on the lips I was gone, leaving her to explain away the late afternoon to 
her mom. I drove back home in time for the much bigger reunion that resulted 
when the rest of my family made it home.

******************

The rest of the weekend can be summed up by three memories:

1. The Daughter

Little or no interaction with the daughter, who was at the nexus of this whole 
interconnected chain of events, was the order of the day, at least on the good 
ship Dan. When I looked at her, I saw danger. I had conditioned myself to 
perceive only one thing about her, which was loathing for me. Reality no longer 
mattered. I was transforming my state of mind into her thoughts and actions. So 
I thought I saw in her actions a conscious effort to avoid me. When, from time 
to time, that briefly was not possible, then I saw in her behavior cold, almost 
sullen, petulance toward me. It was totally lost on me that this perception was 
really a reflection of how I was acting, not her. That was too bad. I really had 
nothing to fear. But you couldn't persuade me of that. Instead, I was flying by 
the Federal Aviation Regulation I would learn by heart in another year:  "See 
and Avoid." It is the airmen's responsibility to avoid collisions. And the 
guilty child molester that I seemed to think I was did not want to go bump in 
the night.

2. The Father

As long as I saw and avoided the daughter, I enjoyed the remaining company. She 
did too. I may have gone out of my way to avoid looking at her, but nobody could 
miss the screeching and carrying on in the halls, rooms, and stairwell of the 
house. The girl and my sister, and the boy and my youngest brother, played with 
youthful and exuberant innocence, at least as far as I could tell from my self-
imposed isolation. Me, perhaps six months away from turning 18, was interested 
in adult company. Male adult company.  Mr. P and my father had worked together 
and I wanted to follow in their footsteps. Badly. Like so badly that the first 
two years of my college career circled that outcome as my reason to exist. In 
the end I didn't actually follow his calling, choosing a totally different 
career on the academic side of things. But my brother did. He always was, and 
still is, goal oriented to the exclusion of almost anything else. As a result, 
he's on his second wife and his oldest son has virtually stopped speaking to 
him. I didn't pay that cost. Not that it was necessary to make that kind of 
sacrifice to get my dad's job. But with my brother, it just seemed so.

Hanging around Mr. P and my dad was so interesting to me that I sought their 
company all weekend. But Mr. P could be a strange bird. The subordinate nature 
of his relationship with my dad seemed to take an already high-strung guy and 
put him on the verge of cracking up. One very strange way this manifested itself 
was a seemingly uncontrollable urge to leap up from the piece of furniture he 
was sitting in and proceed to the color TV we were watching (tuned almost 
certainly to a sporting event) and start twisting the chroma controls, while 
looking over his shoulder and excitedly explaining why this was necessary. Older 
people like me can remember analog television sets. They always had somewhere 
accessible on the front or back of the set knobs that allowed you to adjust the 
relative brightness of the red, green, and blue colors on the screen. Normally, 
if you were a kid, you touched these only at the risk of instant discipline. I 
assumed that only a "trained professional" should touch them. Later, when I 
became designated a "trained professional" for a summer job during college that 
was unrelated to repairing televisions but similar in technical scope, I came to 
cynically understand how ridiculous such labels could be. Cynical or not, mere 
mortals were not supposed to touch the knobs. But here was Mr. P twiddling the 
knobs like a man possessed by the devil. Our knobs, not his. My dad just sat 
there and patiently tolerated this bizarre behavior while I watched in shock and 
awe. What this guy was like in bed I don't know, and I didn't want to know.

3. The Mother

Yes, the mother. Hot looking to the point where the average 17 year old would 
not be able to control his dick if she got frisky. Modern in thought (however 
that was defined in 1979). Educated, but not necessarily sophisticated or 
cultured. We're talking average suburban American woman. And in that wide 
catchall of behaviors, the prior evidence makes it clear that she was on the 
"open" side of sexual things. How open? Not open enough to accept that her 
darling little girl's pussy had been fondled by me a short number of years 
before. Well, I don't know that for a fact, but that was what I assumed. But in 
addition, she was the sort of woman that was a communicator in the modern, 
educated, American suburban woman sense. She didn't blabber mind you. But she 
could "seek" your thoughts, and even your private feelings on things by asking 
questions. In that respect she acted a lot like my mother. How do I know all of 
this? Well, that is the last real memory I have of the woman. Our little chat.

Let's start with what I do NOT remember about our little chat. I don't remember 
how it got started. I don't remember a single word that either of us said. And I 
don't remember exactly how long it lasted. At the time I was trying to escape, 
politely and diplomatically. I was highly suspicious that I was being 
interrogated. She knew something, my slightly bizarre train of thought assumed, 
and I was being probed for "the truth."

A better explanation, in hindsight, was that she was making an approach of the 
amorous kind. Heck I even knew it at the time, but I was so wound up in 
suspicion (and guilt?) that I would not see her for what she was really saying 
and doing.

I'm sure it's time for the dear reader to get skeptical. If I can't remember a 
single thing either of us said, how do I know what "she was really saying"? What 
I DO remember was that the nature of the questions involved a lot of personal 
matters. How are things going in my life? What did I do for fun? What was my 
relationship with Sandy like? Did we love each other? etc etc.

And then there was the location of the chat. I've already described the location 
as the "formal" dining room that no longer even exists in my parents' home. My 
mother despised it for being isolated and cut off and, above all, too dark. She 
hated that. With the wall gone and extra lighting and a sky light, all of that 
has changed. But on that evening it was dim. There was a light on, but it was 
dim, like it always was. And nobody else was in the room with us. That did not 
happen again, in my memory, all weekend. I don't really know how it came to be 
that we were alone in that room. But at the risk of biasing the reader into 
believing she took the initiative, when I know I don't really know for sure how 
we got to where we were, let me just say that I can't really imagine it happened 
without her taking the initiative. I did like to work in the room. Later I would 
actually build gizmos on the formal dining room table we only used for holiday 
meals and such. Until my mom got fed up with the gizmo building and evicted me. 
So I already tended to spend time in that room, especially in the evenings, 
under my own volition. My strong assumption is that I was sitting in there 
reading or doing something and she just wandered in and sat down. Sat down 
close. Like in the chair right next to me facing me at an angle so that her 
knees almost touched mine. So close in my memory that I almost felt 
uncomfortable. Not because of what she was, a very attractive woman even if 
still a "Mrs." I had that particular conflicted feeling that boys have about 
older, but attractive woman. Of separation but attraction at the same time.

It is beyond question that older woman sometimes feel the same way about teenage 
boys. Or more rarely, preteen boys. But everyone knows that teenage boy 
"molesting" is the great under reported "crime." Just check the internet. The 
media has taken up the charge lately after society, including the media, ignored 
the "problem" because "boys will be boys." This slogan suggests that there could 
be no harm if the boy liked it. And which boy wouldn't love the attention and 
sexual interest of an experienced and willing older woman?

I'm not going to offer a debate on the futility and hypocrisy that surrounds 
adult/minor sexual acts in this country and the world. It just is and there is 
little to be done about it. Except staying safe if possible if you participate 
in such things. For me, I could feel that her presence and her questions were 
probing for something. But what something? Under the conditions I have described 
so far, I will make the assertion that it could have been one of three things: 
(1) A delicate exploration of my interest in fucking her. (2) A female/maternal 
interest in "handling" in a constructive way what she had seen, and perhaps 
smelled (LOL) earlier in the day between Sandy and I. (3) She had knowledge of 
my evil prior defilement of her daughter, perhaps (as I reasoned at the time) 
triggered by her daughter seeing me and expressing fear at my proximity, which 
she was trying to get to the bottom of.

In the event, I chose door number (3) and gradually became monosyllabic in my 
answers and unresponsive in my eye contact. That made continuing the chat futile 
and one of us departed for another part of the house. Which one of us, I don't 
remember. But after that there were no more secluded chats with just the two of 
us that weekend. And following the family's departure, I have never seen them 
again.

But was door number (3) really what was going on? Or even door number (2)? There 
is one more feature of the chat that my memory does not compromise about. And it 
should have made door number (1) the prohibitive favorite. In fact, I remember 
my dick kind of screaming for door number (1) but the rest of me shut it out. 
What was it?

The touching.

I kept feeling the outside of my leg getting stroked under the table. Or 
sometimes a set of fingers squeezing my knee to emphasize some point she was 
making. No cock could mistake what that seemed to suggest. For once perhaps the 
little head was right, and the big head should have gone with the flow.

I now can see how easy it would have been to conjure up a pretext to get out of 
the house with her. "Hey mom, I'm taking Mrs. P to the store so she can pick up 
something she needs." I can see being praised for helping Mrs. P when nobody 
else wanted the inconvenience of leaving the house after hours. "Oh what a sweet 
dear your son is." Almost makes you sick thinking about it? It makes me laugh 
with regret at how easy it would have been to end up writhing in the back of my 
car with that chick and grabbing a quickie before the two families wondered how 
a guy who had learned to drive in these neighborhoods could get lost for so 
long.

That would have been a fitting tribute to her daughter, too. Banging her 
cheating mother.

Is this too rich to believe? I'll let you be the judge. I've tried to keep this 
tale as factual as possible. I know of no conscious embellishment in any of what 
I have described. And, remember, I admit that I did not fuck her or her 
daughter. Never happened. But what I described did happen.

What possesses me to think that Mrs. P had this intent? Or would use these 
signals to try and breakthrough my thick skull? Besides Mrs. P I have been 
solicited by at least three other women with similar age differentials as 
between us at the time. Two of them would occur the summer after my freshman 
year in college. But they were both standing in line, at least for a time. 
Sandra was practically bringing girls my age to me. Or younger like her 12-13 
year old sister who was hell-bent to get me to pay sexual attention to her. 
Sandra didn't mean to give me choices, and she certainly didn't welcome the 
competition. But it did our relationship in nonetheless. By July of 1980 I had 
ditched her by phone, making the terrible mistake of telling her who was taking 
her place. That "significant other" chose not to take her place after the cat 
fight that ensued. So I was left with nothing!

The two other older women, both married, had no part in the breakup. But I did 
field their advances and note their methods. And what of the third? That 
occurred many years later after I had been married myself for nine years. A 
married neighbor woman, and a very good looking one to boot. At the time I 
didn't know whether to laugh or to be irritated by her main attempt, which 
shared a few of the features of the Mrs. P episode.

And, really, who doesn't think that older women can do this sort of thing? Just 
like older men hit on girls, and even children, so do older women. I have little 
doubt it was door number (1) and I just blew it.  Was it because of a few 
seconds of fondling a seven year old girl? You tell me!

Dan


Chapter 3 - Thoughts About Young Girls
======================================

Note:  These are a series of e-mails from Dan that accompanied his tributes 
       to young girls.  While none of them are nig enough to warrant their 
       own chapter, taken together they present quite a picture of Dan's 
       fantasies and desires.


Kelly,

Here are all three sisters after I used them. Dirty sluts. Can you believe my sperm is running down the 6 year old's face? She's just a child and yet she's already had a pearl necklace. Many more I hope will rain down. She could have sucked me off by herself, but her sisters wanted some too. They deserved it, I guess. Look how hard the fucking little cunts made me?

I have a few more kike these to send you but time for me to rest. I don't know why I spoil you so! All you do is work me out of sleep.  Soon I will send you the full story of how these children became my cum whores.

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

And here's four more to remind you what I'm going to do to those little daddy trained preteen sluts when I do get to the party...

I told Tammy's mom that I prefer to use a 8 or 9 year old for my sexual pleasure, and Tammy is cool too. But a 4 year old? She told me that the little one's mom was not interested in my preference. She wanted me to fuck the 4 year old in her pussy so she could taste the cum mixed with her daughter's vagina. My other choice was to find another ticket. As a sweetener, she told me that when I got to the party to give the little one to any horny mom there and forget about her. There would be, she assured me, plenty of the "older" girls who had been well trained to submit. I would have the time of my life if I proved myself now.

What's a guy to do? I am a man.

The 12 attached tribute images show you what I did to that little girl and her mom to help you with scene 3 when (eventually) you get to read it. And maybe there's a hard cock in a few of them for you, too!

Love,
Dan

*************************

Kelly,

My lust filled head was insane at the thought of you helping me do the little slut. Imagine if you were next to me frigging your pussy while I licked the child's cunt? Look at what you would see while frigging yourself to a mind blowing orgasm...

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

Do you want me to finish on the little girl's face like the cum slut that she is? You'd whisper nasty encouragement in my ear while jacking my cock over her face and flat chest. You'd beg me to scream out my feelings as I shot my load onto her. Do you see where you are aiming my cock? Is there any doubt what will happen next?

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

O fuck! Kelly I'm cumming on her dirty face. Suck my sperm you little whore! Take the cum you fucking slut. You nasty four year old whore!

Damn look at the dirty little cum rag. Kelly, tell her to suck the head of my cock and get the dregs from my piss hole...

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

You know from our chat that my feelings and desires for 4-6 year olds are the same as most peoples:  they're cute, they're nice, but they are not sexual minded. When the hotties start getting curious (10-11), I get curious too. But even then mom would have to encourage me to take them. 

But that's real life. Fantasy life includes no limits. And if mom wants me to fuck a four year old, one that YOU gave me, then the fantasy becomes "real" for me. I'm glad that, at that point, it turns you on too. See, without you giving them to me (and/or the 7,8,9 or 10 year olds) I wouldn't get hot enough to make the tributes you like. 

Love,
Dan

P.S. I appreciate and value your safe and nonjudgemental ear. That's what I've tried to be for you at times too. And I've expanded my real life point of view as a result.

*************************

Wow, Kelly!

Do you know why I wrote you that email introducing myself maybe a year or so ago? I only lurked before that. Never in my imagination did I see myself where we are now. What could have possibly motivated me to contact you in the first place, let alone continue our correspondence?

It is your intellect. You add it to the erotic content and theme. Without your intellect, I would never have released my inner fantasies to you. Like you said, they would still be bottled up. My wife could not handle them. What Billy Joel calls "The Stranger" will remain so to her. But not to you. Last night as my wife and I made love, I thought of you.

How do I perceive you? First it is so important to consider your record of actions, not just your words. If you read, as I have done, your personal points of view, it would appear unlikely that you would tolerate my fantasies. The average writer on ASSTR or elsewhere would simply say "these are my limits because I personally believe this kind of thing is wrong."  But you don't say that. In fact, you encourage others to live their fantasies. Maybe through tributes. Maybe through stories. Maybe through role playing during chat. But at one time in the past, your encouragement went beyond just those. I read on some forum some of the hysteria this caused with the web vigilantes that wanted you stopped. This aspect of your web site rolled them over the edge. For me and many of your other fans, it was a reality show that was off the charts. I remember masturbating to some of those "pushing" chats in a hotel room on travel. The orgasms were beyond description.

Why, at least at one time, did you pursue the reality show? I could guess, but I don't think I need to. You have always given the answer. Sometimes upfront and clinical when it could be hypothetical.
Sometimes fast and furious when the passion overwhelmed you. Both are honest, but the latter is more revealing.

What do I think drove you? You crave to witness taboo events. To learn about them as real events with real people. You relentlessly search for real, and make judgments one way or the other about how erotic it is for you based on how real you judge them to be.

Why?  I may have already written to you more than you wish me to. Please know that my first goal is for our correspondence to be fun. Fun for you, fun for me. But at the risk of being boring, I'll go a little more. I think I crave the same as you. You seek, I believe, to learn of other experiences similar to yours. You seem to have a family environment that others might find odd (and many others would condemn with nearly violent righteousness). Please take no offense. I did a web search today and read with interest what some others thought of those dads that sent you pictures of their daughters to be posted on your web site. What they said about those dads (Craig comes to mind), they would say about me. In that sense, we are both in the same boat.

Perhaps I seek through fantasy what I subconsciously wish could be true in my life. You search for others that have experienced some of your life.  That is how I explain to myself your persistent interest in daddy daughter sexual relationships, including seeking from me, if just in fantasy, a desire for me to have sex with my daughters. Perhaps our needs make us both tolerant of the other. I'll accept that your tolerance of me may take greater intellectual effort. But you seem to have it, and it certainly has done more than make me correspond with you. It has changed my point of view of my daughters' coming sexuality. The haters and the flamers would not view such an outcome as positive, but I do. I rest easier as the time comes for boys to pursue from my daughters what I certainly pursued myself.

I owe you a debt of gratitude. How you will get me to repay should make for an interesting time.

Love,
Dan

P.S. My guess is that you like to see my crotch. You like my pubic hair surrounding the base of my dick, and flowing down to my balls.

*************************

Dear Kelly,

You decide. The 8 yo is just a good slut for me to use. Once I'm done using her body to masturbate me, then I'll give the whore back to her mom. Until I needed her again, of course!

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

mmmmm. As you can see from the results, she is so hot even as a child.

When my chance to party with her comes, I will force my rock hard cock into her tiny 6 or 7 yo vagina. My pleasure comes first because she's just a child whore to me. But I won't stop there. She'll provoke me to fuck her hard when she dances in front of me with that bare belly at the beach. And as a slut teenager, my cock will be pleasured between her ample tits until I cream in the whore's face while she begs me to shoot my load on her tongue.

When you see my nasty tribute over the child's body, frigging your own clit is not the only thing you will want to do. You WILL lick my cum from her cunt when I tell you too!

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

It's late, but here's a small sample of images and a quick rundown on the back story behind what was a massive tribute tonight.

Title: Little Girls do what Mommy Says

When my daughter was a young preteen, maybe 6 or 7 I would watch her masturbate around the house and it just was not right that I was being teased like this. I talked to my wife, and when she realized that I was sexually attracted to children, and that our encouragement to our young daughter to sexually please herself at home at anytime she wished was making me unbearably horny. It was her that insisted that I take the little girl for whatever sexual needs I had. She told me that as my wife she was duty bound to satisfy any and all of my sexual needs, and now she would insist that our daughter accept a similar responsibility. From now on, my wife would teach that little girl to do what I needed, when I needed it; and, as her mother, she would do anything to make sure my needs were respected. I kissed my wife and then turned my attention to the slutty little girl that was provoking so much sexual frustration in me. From the first picture, can you see what kind of cock sucking slut the child quickly became?

As the little slut grew older, she become more than just a convenient fuck toy, but a willing participant in my sex life with my wife. It was now our family sex life and she was as eager a 9 year old slut as you might expect. Can you see how much she likes to tease me with my cock in her face?

A little older and I decided that whoring her out would satisfy my growing fantasies. My wife agreed that if it was was my fantasy to sell her body to boys and men, then she would help teach her how. It started with the sons of some friends of ours during a beach vacation we took together. You can see that boys were more than happy to use her and the pocket change did help with vacation expenses.

Probably another reason I decided to start whoring her out was that I was getting bored with her and thinking about young girls to replace her. After all, the most massive cum shots I can remember were on her little 7 year old face, just like in the last picture. Believe me, that little girl new the taste and smell of daddy's sperm like a good daughter should.

You did ask for a massive show of cum tonight. How'd I do?

Love,
Dan


Chapter 4 - Sex Ed
==================

Dear Kelly,

I'm a pretty dedicated procrastinator so when I sit down to do some thing, it's best to let my initiative play out. I finished Scene 2 which I will send to you in a following email. I already sent you Scene 1 back in November, but I repeated it here in case you no longer have it.

Dan

*************************

Scene 1 – “I Do!”

“Sex education?” I heard myself say. “Did I hear you right?”

The man opposite to me named Bill replied rapidly, without the slightest hesitation: “You heard me right, Dan. Don’t act so non-committal, after all, you were the one that used up half a bar bill explaining how society should be different with regards to sex and youth.”

Hmmm. Before I could stop myself, I got cheeky. “Well, I did say that it was as likely to happen as me meeting intelligent life from another world. I do believe the little green guys exist, but I don’t think any of us will ever meet them. Time and space won’t permit it.”

It was a lame self defense. But what was I to do after Bill had suggested that his eight year old daughter Tammy might be available for some practical experience with her sexual education?

I searched my memory a bit, what was leftover from THAT evening, at least. Bill was referring to a late night of drinking and talking in a noisy bar on a recent work related trip. He had drifted the
conversation to the great debate on sexual education in this country and I had simply volunteered that children are exposed to full blown sex in many parts of the world without damaging their psyches. Why was our society so violently against it?

Bill had taken to defending society, or at least I thought that’s what he was doing. He did point out more than once that he had been probing why I argued as I did, not necessarily to disagree with me, but to make sure he understood what I was saying. But with the drinking and
the noise, and the assumption that he was “normal” about such matters, it did not occur to me that I may have misinterpreted his position. As a result, I found myself caught off guard by his loose suggestion to involve his daughter in some kind of sexually explicit event. One that might include me!

“You see Dan,” continued Bill, “my wife and I have been teaching Tammy about sex from the beginning.”

“Beginning?” I wondered what that meant but kept it to myself for now.

“Look, I’m only telling you this because I thought you were sincere that night. Stop me if I was wrong.”

Crunch time, I thought. Is he calling my bluff? I thought about his wife, Tammy’s mother.  She had cooked a nice dinner, which all three of us had enjoyed. I hadn’t seen Tammy this evening, but they told me she was upstairs watching TV.

Tammy’s mom was dressed in a short black cocktail dress with what seemed like 5 inch heels. And little to nothing prevented me from enjoying her push up bra and its contents when she leaned over. Maybe they weren’t kidding? I took a chance.

“Hey; Bill” I said, “why would I kid you about something like that? I’m open minded.”

Then I grew cautious. “How does your wife feel about it?”

Bill smirked. I could see he had anticipated this question. “No problem there, Dan. In fact, you want to know the truth?”

“Of course I do, if I’m not kidding, I hope you aren’t either.” I replied trying to give myself the last out.

“Well, ok. She wants to give Tammy to YOU, Dan. She wants you to, well don’t take this the wrong way, but she wants you to feel free to make use of her for whatever…”

As his voice trailed off, I thought about all of the things “whatever” could mean. But one thing in particular kept flashing in my mind. My dick noticed, too. A continuous and building tingle near the head of my cock told me it was alive with the conjecture. And then the physical stirring of the previously docile cock shaft warned me I was no longer in full control.

“Whatever, huh?” I heard myself say. “What does she want in return?”

Bill pursed his lips before replying. Taking his time. Thinking it over carefully, as far as I could see. Then he seemed to make up his mind and answered rather decisively. “She, and I, want to watch. In fact, as long as it doesn’t creep you out, we’d like to fuck, er, have
sex while watching you do what makes you happy with Tammy. You see, Dan, we’ve been living the lifestyle we talked about at the bar for a long time. But you’re the first person we felt we could trust to join us in our, well, home-schooled sex education of Tammy.”

Well, what do you say to that? My head was swimming with emotions and counter emotions. Should I denounce them? Join them without further ado? Ask for more explanation? The obvious question popped into my mind. “Ok Bill, I’m with you. Can you, me, and the missus talk some more? All together for a few minutes?”

Bill’s face broke into a big smile. “Sure Dan, sure.”

Then he turned away and raised his voice. “Hey babe, get that nice ass in here. Dan wants to talk about our proposition.”

And then the woman wiggled in with a careless saunter and a sultry smirk across her face. She plunked down in her husband’s lap and crossed her legs. Rather slowly and deliberately, folding her hands around her exposed knees well below the hem line of the tightly stretched dress.

“Ok, Dan,” she said, “what do you want to know?”

Playing it safe, as always, I replied. “Hey, I’m just making sure I understand what I thought I just heard. Bill told me to do something to Tammy but I’m not one hundred percent certain I understood what he meant. He said you would know. Maybe you can clarify things just a bit?”

She smiled a bit more, pursed her lips, and then raised her eyebrow watching me closely as she directed a very deliberate reply my direction, making close eye contact the whole time.

“Sure Dan, sure. You see, when Tammy was born, I decided to put into practice some beliefs I have about the sexuality of humans. Any human, Dan, even very young humans. I started by masturbating Tammy from a very young age. For me, Dan, masturbation, or at least motherly
assisted masturbation includes whatever a girl can do with another girl.”

The woman paused only slightly, for effect I supposed, and then continued.

“That means I used my fingers to play with her tiny pussy. I explored the folds between her cunt lips. I rubbed her clitoris, or what I could find of something so small. Usually, I just rubbed lightly between the folds of the child’s clitoral hood. Getting it to extend past the vulva is really not too difficult. Most little girls clitoral hood will, well, just peak out you know.”

My cock was growing so quickly I was forced to shift in my seat on the sofa. She noticed and her eyes flicked down at my crotch. A big, but sly tooth smile sprang across her mouth. I felt embarrassed that she would guess what was going on in my pants. But there was little I could do as she commented on the near obvious.

“How nice, Dan, for you to share with us your feelings!” Then her leer turned to a laugh that I instinctively followed with a chuckle of my own. “Ok, you caught me…”

But before I could continue my impromptu confess and cut me off with her firm but measured voice. “So Dan, you know what comes next after a girl fingers another girl don’t you?”

I shifted but remained speechless, correctly assuming that no answer was required. I was right when she continued.

“A girl’s gonna go down on that girl, don’t you think Dan?”

I tore my eyes off of her face for just a second to look at Bill. His expression was cast in a knowing smirk, but nothing else. With nothing to be gained from looking at Bill any longer, my eyes fell back on his wife’s face.

“Yep, me and Tammy have for years helped each other out. She plays with my pussy. I play with hers. I lick her cunt, she eats me out. All the time, Bill, here, gets a show. Would you like to see that show Dan?”

A slow nod of the head up and down is all my intense but erotically stimulated mind could manage.

“I thought so, Dan. I thought so. That’s all fine and dandy, Dan, but now I want to watch someone else have my little girl. Is 8 years old to old for you Dan?” This time she waited for no gesture of reply from me before continuing. “Surely not. Surely not. I want to watch YOU Dan use Tammy for whatever turns you on.”

As she visibly relaxed, leaning back again to a simple resting position perched on Bill’s knee she glanced quickly but purposefully over her shoulder and continued. “Me and Bill here are going to fuck while I, and him if he wants, watch you have fun with Tammy. Wouldn’t you like that Dan? Just say the word and she is yours.”

My cock was now at full mast, having pushed my underwear into a distorted position trying to manage this unnatural position within my jeans. I wanted to stimulate myself; to just pull my cock out of my jeans and stroke away at this impossibly hard cock. I was losing the ability to manage this conversation, let alone think clearly about the situation I now found myself in.  A croak came out instead of my voice. “I do!”

With that, she turned to Bill and sarcastically addressed my two word reply. “You hear that Bill, now Dan wants to marry the little cunt!”

Bill finally broke his by now long silence. “Gotta try it before you buy it, right babe?”

They both broke into a short giggle and then she turned to me. “Ok Dan, you want me to get her? I’m pretty horny and I’m dressed to kill, don’t you think?”

With that, I suddenly closed my wide open jaw and mustered the presence of mind to assert a point of privilege, more out of instinct than a serious desire to place conditions. “Ok, but first a couple of questions. About her, I mean. Like, I’d want to know what to expect. Sort of. You know what I mean, right?”

“Sure Dan, no problem. Ask away.” She said once again in that deliberate but measured voice.

“Ok.” I started as I cleared my throat. “Tell me what she looks like without clothes? Clean pussy? Tits? What should I expect?” How any of this came out coherent with my cock trying to rip the seam of my jeans, I don’t know. It was literally uncomfortable to sit there like that. I knew I would have to do something soon. The solution had been offered by Tammy’s mom, but I wanted to be absolutely certain that they meant what I thought they meant.

Tammy’s mom arched her eyebrows and pursed her lips. Cocking her head
slightly to one side, she decided to oblige my curiosity. “Clean
pussy? Come on, Dan, she’s eight. Her pussy is that of a child. No
hair. Just big full lips and some juicy parts inside. As for tits,
girls that young don’t have any. She has two nipples about the size of
dimes. She talks about getting boobs like mine, but she’s not really
sure what that means. Just keeping up with mommy I suppose. Her hips
are pretty straight, but her legs are kind of long, supporting a
pretty, but common little butt. I like to rub the cheeks of her but,
and caress anything inside I find, including a tight pink anus just
below the bottom extent of her labia. Lots of rubbing, and poking, if
you know what I mean.”

I thought about the vision she framed in my mind based on her
description. Hairless pussy, no hips or tits, but pretty ass. What was
there to think about, really? She and Bill would be there so any
limits could be set by them. Why not? My cock was definitely starting
to do the thinking, if you can call it thinking that is.

“Sure, bring her down. She sounds like something I would enjoy using
for my pleasure.” Rubbing a bit of my cock into her pussy lips would
be an unexpected treasure. And it was time to stop ignoring that
treasure.

Tammy’s mother quickly stood up out of her husbands lap. “Great!
Great, Dan. You’re the man. You’ll like her hairless preteen cunt, I
promise. And tasting it is on the house!

She turned and left the room, leaving Bill and I facing each other but
saying nothing. I could only imagine the condition his cock was in. I
knew that my cock was urging quick action. While I would not honor
that if I could help it, I did know that I was suddenly anticipating a
pretty little eight year old to walk through that door, mother in tow,
and start me down a path that I enjoy. It took a few minutes, but then
I caught sight of the both of them as they walked back into the room.

*************************

Scene II – “Why does your Daughter Stink of Cum?”

My breath was starting to return to normal. During the massive
explosion of my orgasm, my head had laid back in the recliner. Now, as
I began to collect myself, I lifted my head off the head rest and
looked down my chest. What I saw gave my cock an extra twitch.

Tammy, that’s what I saw.

The brunette colored hair on the top of the seven year old’s head,
with a slightly wandering white part down one side was in my near
view. Her hair was slightly unruly, not unkempt; clean and smelling
pleasant and flowery, like it had been recently washed. I had enjoyed
inhaling the scent while I fondled her with my cock earlier. The
result of that fondling was now visible by looking over her head where
her pale colored midrift and pubic area were exposed. As I looked at
her belly button, I could see the opaque cloudiness of dense sperm
swimming in pools of semen wetted to her skin. My sperm. Elongated
lengths of seminal waste extended across her stomach and seemed to
continue onto her chest which was momentarily blocked from my view by
her head.

And that SMELL. I knew the source of that. It had rapidly overpowered
her pleasant fragrance, making a putrid replacement that made the
presence of my seminal fluid covering her torso undeniable. As the
more watery seminal fluid not held together by the gelatinous
uncounted millions of sperm cells began to run down the sides of her
belly and other rivulets meandered back toward the child’s exposed
pussy, I knew I had shot an unbelievable load of cum on the little
preteen.

My hand was still lightly stroking my cock, pumping an ooze of semen
out of the piss hole of my now shrinking cock. The head of my cock
felt like it was on fire. Echo’s of the huge stimulation of orgasm had
left my cock in a state of ultra sensitivity. I released my cock and
immediately wiped the gooey remnants of my seminal discharge on the
halter top that I had pushed up to her neck while molesting her.

She had mostly lain still during the whole episode. It had not taken
long. My cock was too hard, stimulated further by Tammy’s mom’s head
practically down in her little girl’s crotch, while my hand
masturbated my rod through the little girl’s most private and delicate
part of her young body. The folds of her under-developed labia and
clitoral hood were a perfect place to stimulate the head of my cock. I
did not try to penetrate the child’s vaginal opening.

“Not yet!” I told myself.

Instead, I was content with rubbing my cock through the folds of her
cunt as hard as my lust needed. And Mom was right there. Licking the
head of my cock every time I offered it to her. And then urging me to
stretch the girl’s genitals as much as I wanted.

I could still hear her yelling, “Come on Dan, move the cock HARD into
her. Forget about her and think about your cock. Come on Dan, hard! Oh
yeah! That was a good hard stroke. Do it again. Forget about her.
Think about you and cumming. I want her to stink with your cum, Dan!”

Mom’s own lust was being fed by her husband’s cock, which was porking
the older woman’s pussy with rhythmic strokes. Mom was helping the
fucking along with a hand curled up underneath her body. I couldn’t
see it, but I assumed it was frigging away on her swollen clit.

Through all of this, I did as I was told. I tried to lose myself in my
own lust and the intense pleasure from the sexual stimulation of the
head of my penis. That the head of my penis was almost brutally
driving at an increasing pace through the tender folds of the child’s
vaginal opening and surrounding tissues with my own hand was only
helping my lust. Mom’s encouragement aside, I had lost touch with any
gentle feeling I had for this little girl.

It had certainly started differently. When Tammy finally was
introduced into the living room by her mom, with her dad saying little
but making the words count with quiet encouragement, I had found it
almost comical. The little 7 year old girl was not exactly dressed
like a tramp or whore, because she wore so little. Just a yellow
halter top that had spaghetti straps over her thin shoulders and the
thin material forming the body of the halter ending just below the
tiny brown nipples resting on her utterly flat chest. Her straight
torso, showing no sign of womanly curves, disappeared into a “A level”
black cloth skirt. On her feet were black high heeled pumps but no
stockings.

She strutted into the room on those pumps like a pro, which, of
course, was made easier by her small, light preteen body. Probably
some practice, too. Whatever, I liked what I saw and was immediately
smitten.

When she got close enough for me to touch her I extended my hand which
she took with a much smaller, delicate hand of a young girl. I gently
spun her around with a twist of my arm and smiled at her as my other
arm collected her and pulled her into my lap. She did not resist.

Once she sat down in my lap, her mom spoke up. “Good girl Tammy. From
now on, Mr. Dan is going to have full privileges. Ok honey? Just like
we talked, right?” Mom punctuated her remarks by nodding her head up
and down slightly.

Tammy reciprocated by shaking her head in affirmation. Then she looked
up at me and tried to give a half smile. My heart practically melted.
I immediately began speaking in low and encouraging tones to her. “Hey
beautiful girl, how did you get so pretty? Your mom told me what a
good girl you are. I’m so happy that we’re going to get to know each
other tonight.”

She listened but did not answer directly. Instead, she just relaxed
totally into my body. Her head rested against my chest and she stared
out while I continued to talk to her. I whispered almost everything I
could think of that was either encouraging or complementary. I felt no
animosity toward Tammy, and she seemed to feel none toward me. And the
whole time my good feelings were helped along by the wonderful smell
of her hair in my nostrils.

Then I heard Tammy’s mom prompt things along. “Hey Dan, you can’t see
what I can see, but you CAN reach your hand under that skirt and then
you’ll know all the same.”

I slid one hand down her bare midrift and over her skirt and onto her
exposed thigh. Her legs were what you would expect from a very young
girl of seven. Thin with little if any fat. I could feel the bone near
the flesh at the inside of her upper thigh. Normally, if my hand was
in this location with the average woman, and it had not been slapped,
then things were going very well. And that always caused my cock to
stand up and take notice.

But this time, my cock was already erect from the mere run up to this
incredible situation. My cock stretched my tight jeans enough that I
slid my hand back under her butt and started fiddling with my fly. Mom
saw my predicament and came to the rescue.

“Hey Dan, let me help you with that.” And with that I released my
pants and put my hand back on the child’s thigh while mom reached
under her daughter and undid my pants and pulled them down my legs. I
lifted my butt to let them go. She had hooked my underwear at the same
time and momentarily my erection was caught in the waist band. My eyes
lit up in panic but before I could protest she saw my panic and
deduced the problem. With a big knowing smile she said:

“Here, let me help.” And I felt her hand firmly grip my cock and slip
it out from behind the hem of the underwear briefs. I relaxed and made
an attempt at humor. “Mmmm, Cool-Hand Luke!”

She laughed and replied “Are you saying I’m a cold woman? You
obviously don’t know me well.”

I was at a loss for words and so did not muster a rejoinder. Instead,
I thankfully returned my attention to the child in my lap. My super
erect cock was flat up against my belly as the little girl settled
back into my lap. My hand now ran directly up her thigh and under her
skirt. It did not have to go far before the angle of her panty less
crotch revealed itself. I was feeling the familiar feel of the
depression between two cunt lips. But these were the cunt lips of a
seven year old little girl, not that of a grown woman. The hairless
pussy was warm and smooth. It was soft but firm. I moved a finger into
the slit and felt the soft tissues of the inner folds of the child’s
pussy. But it all seemed tiny to the touch, as indeed it would by
sight too.

Mom, watching, moved her hand beneath her tight skirt and I could tell
was stimulating her own pussy. I started the same on Tammy’s pussy
when I suddenly stopped. I pulled my hand out and then used both hands
to grasp the child’s tiny skirt and just yanked it down her legs. The
skirt slid down the girls legs and fell to the floor. The pumps had
already slid off both feet.
That left only her yellow halter top. I ignored that for now and
stared at the sight of the little girl’s pussy thus exposed. If my
cock had not already been as hard as it can be, it would have
stiffened at the sight of the beautiful hairless preteen pussy that
was now upturned and exposed for all to see. What you could not see I
could readily feel. My hard cock was now resting in the crack of the
child’s ass. It was warm and slightly stimulated there and I was now
loosing ground to the mental instability called lust.

My hand went back to her pussy and began exploring the depths of her
sex organ. I used my fingers to probe and to stretch. She shifted from
time to time when I was less than gentle, but otherwise made no
protest.

Her mom kept looking down at her daughter’s pussy being molested by my
fingers and my eyes. Her lips formed an “O” in her face. And then she
began once again the gentle encouragement.

“Nice Dan. Don’t worry about her pussy, just rub it. Yeah, just like
that. Smell any cunt juice on your finger yet?”

I lifted my finger near to my nose and shook my head no.

She replied to the sign language with an edge to her voice. “Ok Dan,
that’s cus you haven’t gone far enough. Use your finger to push it
into her body. Can’t you find the vaginal opening? Use your finger and
PUSH!”

I looked at her thinking “hey lady, I’m doing the fondling here”, but
said nothing. Instead, I used my finger to open Tammy’s mouth and
shoved a couple in. When she had sucked them enough to make them
slippery with her spit, I removed them from her mouth and returned
them between the preteen’s legs.

After rubbing a bit more, I reached my hand under the girl and took
hold of my absolutely straining cock and began masturbating my penis
through the crack of the child’s ass and up into the folds of her
pussy. I rather roughly spread the child’s legs so that her feet now
were outside of either armrest of the recliner chair we were sitting
in. And then I started pumping my cock away. In my mounting lust, the
stroke of my cock went back and forth; becoming faster as the urgency
of the masturbation continued through the delicate folds of her cunt.
She squirmed from time to time but said nothing. Her head was riveted
on the sight of my cock stretching and distorting her pubic area.

As her mom watched, her own lust built. I said little, but mom started
bating me. “Hey Dan, it’s ok to tell us what you are thinking. The
nastier the better. Don’t hold back because of us, I WANT you to use
the dirty slut. She’s your whore. USE HER!” She spat out the last loud
and demanding.

I did not notice at first that mom’s skirt was pushed up and her
husband Bill was now behind the woman apparently fucking her doggy
style. I could hear him slap the ass of his wife with his pelvis as he
drove his cock home. Mom swayed with the pounding, and used one hand
to steady herself while the other attended to urgent business between
her legs.

I new I was close and then I was beyond control. I rammed my cock into
the child’s pubic area, jerking the shaft of the cock while at the
same time forcing the head of the cock through the girls prepubescent
clitoral hood. My first spurt of seminal fluid came suddenly as did my
orgasm. With shaking leg I started snarling my verbal response to the
stimulation, directing it at the underage girl in my lap.

“Oh YEAH!!! Damn! You fucking little cum whore. You made me cum! Damn
I’m cumming. You fucking slut. You fucking child whore! Damn you! I
should ram my cock into your cunt hole NOW!!”

But I didn’t. Instead, I aimed my exposed cock toward her belly button
and stroked the shaft like mad. The sperm mixed with watery seminal
fluid jerked out of the end of my cock in several long spurts. The
first two were so voluminous; it felt like I was urinating sperm.

As it slowed down, I heard mom groan with pleasure. With my head back
on the head rest of the recliner, I did not see that mom had partially
collapsed from her orgasm. Her husband didn’t care and kept pumping
until he emptied his testicles into his wife’s vaginal cavity.

As my breathing continued to slow its pace, and with the stench of the
seminal fluid covering parts of the child’s body wrenching my senses
back to reality, I sighed and relaxed. And then I just blurted a
question to Tammy’s mom, who was in an amusing position in front of
Tammy and me holding onto a sofa with one hand while resting one knee
on the floor so her ass could stick up into the air allowing her
husband’s cock to remain impaled in her cunt from behind.

“Wow, that was fucking the most erotic sex act I have ever seen, let
alone jacked off in!”, I panted, “YOU HAVE to tell me why we just did
this!!”

*************************

Scene 3

I know. Attached is the picture I chose to show you what my dick has
been up to lately. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. What's the little
blond one's name? She's sooo cute in the bikini next to hot mom.

The little one and mom are in scene 3. Dan finds out why he was
invited to use Tammy:  mom and dad are going to take their daughter to
her first younger-than-10 party using her as the ticket to get in. Dad
doesn't feel comfortable fucking his own daughter (sound familiar?),
even though mom would prefer him to do it, and has been sexually
educating her daughter in masturbation and the girl side of bi for
years.  Dan was recruited to get Tammy ready for the big show. But Dan
is, well, kinda greedy. How does he get his own ticket to attend?
Tammy's mom and dad have been to parties before borrowing someone
else's twisted play toy. They know how Dan can earn the right to
borrow a little 4 yo. You know who THAT will turn out to be...

Also, attached a new one of Amanda. Had to chase Amanda to get it.
They don't know what's up with daddy and his damn camera.

I wish I could have figured a way to take a picture of that 6-grade
playmate in church this morning . She was next to her mom. They they
look so much alike you'd think they were sisters.

Dan


Chapter 5 - Child Sex Party
===========================

Scene 1:

I pick up my borrowed children to use to use as "tickets" to a
daddy-daughter party tonight. My friend Michelle, a vivacious and
voloptious unnatural blond (I suspect) pushes her two daughters toward
me in a public place. She is all smiles and my dick twitches thinking
about the beautiful children I get to escort to a hardcore party. I
have enough respect for my friend to avoid planning to fuck her
children, but since they will have to be offered as fucktoys for me to
get in, their sexual limits are now my concern.

"What should I tell them about, well, you know, how far they can go
with my borrowed little sluts?" I ask in all inocence. The question is
not rehtorical. I need to know.

She looks at me and flashes that winning smile of hers and says with
no hint of irony "As hard as the party goers want. No limits. Just
tell the whore in the kid's room not to bother cleaning them up. We
like them to come home nasty and used. And don't forget to bring home
the DVD!"

The DVD. Oh yeah. My friend had explained to me when she called me
about this opportunity that her boyfriend and her would have preferred
to go to the party themselves, but already had an adult only party to
go to. She encourages her boyfriend to use her daughter to satisy his
sexual needs. The compromise was that in return for wearing the dog
collars at this party, the house whore in charge of the kids room
should make an attempt to capture some of the fun on a camcorder. I
was to bring home a copy of the DVD so she and her boyfriend could
fuck to the sights and sounds of her daughter and her daughter's
fellow fucktoy being fucked hard by a roomful of horny dads.

As for me, I was content to check out the scene and then make up my
mind who and how I would get my rocks off.

"Come along children," I said to the two gorgeous little girls I was
escorting, "off to the gangbang with the both of you."


Scene 2:

At the front door I offer the credentials and display my tickets to
the party. The children, 4 and 5 year old little girls, are dressed in
the clothes they were delivered in. The rather large woman that greets
us is wearing next to nothing but a bikini top that seems at least two
sizes too small and a ridiculously tiny patch of fabric some might
call a thong bikini bottom. On her rather wide hips and overlaping
belly, it looked obscene. That was probably her intention.

She looked me right in the eyes and asked what category I was offering
the children. I reply hesitantly, like a guy who has forgotten the
silly names for the sizes of coffee in a Starbucks. "Umm, well
whatever you call pretty much anything goes..."

"Oh, do you mean no limits fuck toys?"

"Well, her mom told me..."

"She told you WHAT exactly?" the woman suddenly snaps with a quick
change of facial expression. She's about as sincere as a Walmart
greeter, I decide.

"Just that, well she said 'no limits' Yeah, that's what she said." I
stammer in reply.

The woman returns nearly instantly to a beaming, friendly hostess.
"Well, in that case, pick up two dog collars from that box and put
them on your little sluts. How old are they again?"

Regaining my composure, I take the feable opportunity to get back at
her just a little "I DIDN'T say." I reply with enough emphasis to make
my point and then some. "They are 4 and 5 years old. They are
sisters."

"Hmmm, had em close togehter, eh?"

"They are not my children. I'm just borowing them from their mom."

"Oh yes, we were expecting these little fuck toys. Why didn't you say
so? Dog collars for both of them and off to the kids nursery down the
hall and to the right."


Scene 3:

Down the hall and to the right. As I turned the corner I pushed the
younger one ahead of me and pulled the older one behind me as we went
through the door. I was surprised at the sight that awaited me. On the
floor were three little girls dressed in adorable outfits that were
suprisingly formal. Puffy girly-girl dresses and stockings and shoes.
And entertaining them was a short petite blond haired woman that I
assumed was the room whore. When she looked up and spoke, I knew I was
right.

"Oh, too more little children for a kiddy party! My name is Kristi and
I'm helping the men have a child sex party in this room tonight. Will
you help us with your two little friends and her new gangbang bunch."
The last she said with a sweep of her hand in the direction of the
children around her.

I laughed as I let go of the two children who are about to become sex
toys for a wild sounding party MC's by the room whore. "Nope, I'm
going hunting for something a little more ready for my hard woody."

Kristi looked down at my crotch and said "Oh, and what would that be?"

"8 or 9 years old and willing, at least a little. I'll take if from there."

"Cool" Kristi said as she returned to entertaining her little child
brothel to be.


Scene 4:

As I walked back out into the hall and into the great room, sex was
already underway. On the couch was an older man with a preteen girl
and what looked like a twenty something woman (to me) french kissing
each other. His hand wasn't the only one pawing underneath the
preteen's clothes, who might have been 11.

In the floor near the wall another older preteen or near teen was on
her hands and knees servicing two men, also fatherly in their age and
appearance, who were fucking her from either end.

And then in a folding chair by a plant in the corner, sitting in a
darkened nook in the otherwise soft lit great room, a very young and
very pretty brunett was sitting by herself. Her outfit caught my
attention as much as my guess of her age, which was 9 or 10 years old.
She was wearing a green bikini. Not like the slutty girl look you
might expect in such a depraved moment; but, instead, it was like
something she might actually wear on a beach. It looked, from a
distance, like nothing more than a somewhat ill-fitting green pair of
granny panties and a loose half halter top. But on second glance I saw
that it was a bathing suit alright. And around her neck was the
unmistakable dog collar identifying her as a young girl that was
available for whatever obscene acts of male sexual pleasure I could
dream up. I was instantly attracted to her and started moving toward
her corner of the room...


Scene 5:

She saw me coming and lifted her head and watched me cross the room
with an almost expressionless stare. I feel neither welcomed nor
discouraged. I could tell that she was no stranger to male sexual
approaches. That was no real surprise at THIS party. As I got close to
her I reached out my hand and softly cupped the back of her head. I
was feeling gentle toward such an attractive little girl. And with the
dog collar around her neck assuring me that my lustful needs would not
be rejected, I felt I could afford to take it easy with her.

"Hey gorgeous little sweet heart, feeling lonely?"

Was that the best pick up line I could manage?

She looked up at me briefly and offered a hint of a smile and then
barely moved her shoulders in what I took as an apathetic attempt at a
shrug.

I swung around and plopped down next to her to continue the rather
one-sided conversation, all the while stroking her hair, the back of
her neck, with occasional strokes of my hand down her back to the top
of her buttocks. She listened silently as I told her how pretty she
was and how much a pretty girl like her should be appreciated by the
loving stroke of my hand. I begin kissing the side of her face
starting from the top of her head and smooching down to her ears and
then the lobes of her ears. She almost instinctively tips her head
down against the top of her shoulder and starts giggling. That's when
I know she doesn't really mind my attention after all.

My cock was now straining in my jeans and the tightness and surging
pulses of pleasure from the head of my cock put me on the fast track.
I am emboldened to take the next naughty step. I move my other hand to
her chest covered with that loose, ill fitting green bikini top. Then
my hand begins a slow journey toward her lap. Without a hint of
hesitation, my hand drops down into her loose bikini bottom and goes
straight to her crotch, where my probing fingers seek out her
prepubescent pussy. Her legs are mostly closed in a comfortable
sitting position, but she does not clamp them around my hand as it
probes for the most intimate private spot on her body. Obviously, she
has been molested before. Good, I think. The thought makes my cock
even harder, if that were possible.

I suddenly want to molest her pussy without any further impediments. I
didn't feel in a rough mood, but I know what I want and I am entitled
to it. The dog collar tells me that.

So, with my other hand on her back I push her from behind with enough
pressure to make her stand up, and she does. Then my hand goes all the
way between her legs. My fingers probe the smooth skin of her pussy
lips. I force the lips apart and push my fingers through her clitoral
hood. Rubbing back and forth and using the split fingers to rub all
around the outside of her vulva. My middle finger searches through her
clitoral hood and pushes back toward her tight anus looking for the
tiny opening leading to the child's vagina.

As I find it I began pushing my finger into the wetness of the
opening. I am always overwhelmed by excitement whenever I feel the
increasing wetness of a woman's vaginal opening with my finger. A
young girl is no different. But her's is so tight, so typical of a
child, that my middle finger gets stuck. As it lodges just inside her
body, I notice her legs bow a bit and she steps up on to the tips of
her toes, signaling to me that my finger has invaded her private parts
and that she would like to reduce the pressure from my finger. I pull
the finger back out and rub it hard through her clitoral hood, pulling
it up through the fat lips of her cunt and leaving a streak of her
vaginal secretion on her skin.

I continue in this vein for what seems like a long time, but is
probably no more than a minute or two. She does not make eye contact
with me, but instead stares straight ahead; passively accepting my
continuing molestation of her. That only makes me more sexually
aroused, if such a thing is possible.

I spring to my feet in a sudden rage of sexual lust. I know that her
dog collar means that using her for my sexual pleasure is my concern
alone, not hers. She knows it too as she continues to stand in front
of me, but tips her head up to look at me without changing her
expression. I begin a mad fumble with my belt and the button and
zipper of my jeans. I have to let my penis out. To push it into her
face. To make her take it into her mouth no matter what she thinks.

As  I finish fumbling my thick cock, feeling stretched to the limit or
beyond if that's possible, pops out of my jeans. The angry purple head
waves in front of the nine-year old child's nose. Her eyes flick up to
mine once more, and then like a practiced whore, she opens her mouth
and leans slightly forward. I take my prick by it's base in my hand
and ease it into her mouth. I can't resist verbalizing what I feel
about her submissive acceptance of my penis in her mouth.

"That's it. Take my cock in your mouth and give me a cheap blow job,
you nasty little whore."

I continue. "You nasty whore, suck and slobber all over my cock."

As I lean my head back in pleasure, I breath "Keep sucking."

She slacks off of sucking for a second, prompting me to snap my head
back down and say "Damn you you nasty whore, KEEP SUCKING!"

In response, I see her cheeks hollow out as the nine-year old
increases her rhythm and attempts to pleasure me with her tongue,
lips, and cheeks. The obscene sucking sounds coming from the child's
mouth heighten my lust. My hand, which rests on the back of her head,
curls around her hair and begins a rhythmic face fuck that satisfies
my lust; that satisfies my need to sexually abuse a child by forcing
her to blow my cock. My urgency grows and with it the hardness of my
jerking of her head. The uncaring pistoning of my cock past her lips
and into the back of her throat continues. Deeper, and then deeper
still until I care not at all that she is choking and spitting
profusely on the shaft of my cock. As the saliva from her wretched
blow job is extracted from her mouth, the sight of the obscenity,
rather than the imperfect fellatio administered to my rigid manhood by
the young girl, begins to bring me to a climax.

And them I cum. A pumping, spurting fountain of semen erupts from the
piss hole at the top of my straining erection. It feels like white
urine, it is so voluminous. It feels like a solid liquid column
jetting from the end of my cock. "God!" I moan as my legs shiver and
my hips involuntarily shove forward jamming the cock as far into her
throat as her muscles will permit, which is not that far on such a
young child. The spurts of testicle puke continue. I look down and see
the white slime mixed with her copious near wretch saliva dripping in
obscene globs off of the shaft of my cock. I notice some kind of slime
running out of her nose. And tears in her eyes from the force of my
penis as I jack it off with the friction of her lips. I can only hope
that she shares the same disgusting feeling about herself that I feel
after my ejaculant fills her mouth and is partially swallowed by her
involuntary reflexes.

Finishing ejaculating in the young girl's mouth, I yank her face
upward by her hair and snarl at her "Open your lips and show me your
sperm filled mouth whore!"

She does what I demand without hesitation. That persuades me that this
must not be the first nasty blow job in her young life.

"Now, swallow what I gave you and thank me. Come on bitch, swallow and
THANK ME!"

She hesitates to swallow, but after yanking her head by her hair
twice, she grimaces as she swallows the sperm and pukey saliva in two
or three small gulps. I notice that she is seized by a gag reflex
after the second swallow, but she manages to keep it down.

After seeing the gag, I can't resist adding:  "Ok you fucking little
whore, you provoked that blow job by teasing me with that little green
bikini. Do it again and I will fuck your cunt so hard you won't know
what happened."

Then I jerk her head back while releasing her hair and begin to wipe
my cock off on her bikini top. After a few wipes, getting a slimy mess
stuck to the fabric of her bikini,  I pop my softening cock back into
my jeans, zip up and walk to the nearest piece of furniture to sit
down and rest. The night is still young and I want to give myself a
break before observing the depraved sexual molestation of other
children going on around me at the party. Eventually, I know, watching
others fuck the toys will get me hard again and ready to use another
dog collared child whore.


Chapter 6 - The Case of the House Slut
======================================

Dear Kelly,

I warned you. This is not a fantasy fuck story...
 

****Would I Fuck You? – The case of the House Slut****

Any woman that has earned the right to the name “house slut” ought to get a free 
ride to fuck whomever she wants. Most of the time, that is. For the 
appropriately worthy girl, the issue is hardly ever in doubt. The guys are 
controlled by what thinks the least, and react instinctively the most. Namely, 
with their dicks. And that is all she should have to do:  Make it impossible for 
you to doubt that it’s your lucky day. Eliminate all uncertainty. Forget that 
ole cliché “if you play your cards right” because you've already won the hand. 
You’ve been selected for a free fuck and there’s nothing more for you to do 
except to have fun until you decide to make it to the hotel room. Get your cock 
up (she’ll be sure to give an extra hand or mouth if the matter is in the 
slightest doubt) and get to doing what every guy can barely wait to do anyway. 
They don’t call us “one track minds” for nothing.

Well, that’s the theory at least. And for a true slut, it can become routine. So 
certain to work that even a woman who has been christened the “house slut” 
starts to take men for granted. Does “no” exist in the vocabulary of the male 
species? "Not applied to ME it doesn’t," says the house slut confidently. Oh 
sure, there are plenty of guys who would say “no.” But not in a place like 
Jesters in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. Guys who protect their adulterous virginity 
by condemning all of that as “wrong” wouldn’t hang out in a place like that, and 
so space and time would protect them from being so easily compromised by the 
house slut. Guys who would say no are not like me. Me and my pal “G” that is.

“G” was a coworker from my previous job. We were down in this town finishing up 
some work that we had begun together before I bugged out for  my current 
livelihood.  Not a bad mission, too. About three weeks in Ft. Lauderdale during 
the high season? February? Everywhere else we had been to on our way to this 
temporary paradise had tried to cheat us of precious days. Wind. Snow. Ice. Loss 
of electric power for days on end. YIKES! So pulling into "Lauderdale" in the 
whee hours of the morning after a grueling 24 hour drive had been refreshing. 
Even shocking. Get out of the car at 3 AM in February to find the air balmy? 
Hey! This is just wrong.

After making it to the hotel and sleeping off the exhaustion, we went out to the 
work site and did some preliminary things to set up shop. By the time dinner 
time rolled around, we were famished. And ready for our first evening meal in a 
town that the old hands back at the plant had built up to be a party town that 
had no limits. "Anything could happen and often does" the people in the know 
told us. I had never been here before. All I knew of Ft. Lauderdale was that I 
had once seen a movie with Elvis Presley strumming a guitar supposedly in Ft. 
Lauderdale during an early version of what we now call “Spring Break.” But it 
was probably a movie set anyway, not the real thing. I was now in the real 
thing.

Yep, the old guys at the plant ought to know. After all, they had bragged long 
and hard about all times they had been here. “Ft. Liquordale” they liked to call 
it. And so our fantasies ran wild. Exploring it thoroughly had a purpose, 
namely, to risk getting into trouble. Of course, not too much trouble. We were, 
and are, professionals. Still have to get the job done. Mission first. Etc. etc. 
I still have photographs of what “getting the job done” looked like after an 
encounter with a slut we called simply “the mouth." Wretched worn out souls we 
were (but not from fucking her). But that story is for another time.

Back at the hotel, which was no where near the beach or any other tourist 
attraction for hard-up college coeds that we could imagine, we asked ourselves, 
“where do we start?” (“G” had made the travel arrangements. This hotel right on 
the interstate was the best he could find on short notice for a long stay at the 
peak of the snow bird season.) A good meal seemed a necessity. Then we would 
find a lively place to hang out and watch, hoping for that fleeting look from 
the gorgeous twenty something chicks we were dying to meet. At least that was 
the fantasy. But titty bars, or worse, were off limits. Not because of morals or 
even what our wives thought. “G” and I both knew that titty bars are nothing but 
money sinks with no chance for any REAL action. Yawn. We wanted real chicks. 
Real horny chicks. We were ready for those vaguely promised sluts to line up 
for, well, for what? We’d figure THAT out once we were seated in one of those 
hook-up bars flirting away. Yep, we were sure we would.

In reality we were on fixed budgets. You can’t afford titty bars or expensive 
dining on a fixed budget. "G" had a young son and a baby daughter and a wife at 
home. Actually for a night or two they stayed at my parent’s home. We had 
dropped them off on the way to Florida to escape the unbearable effects of the 
ice storm. They were back in their own home by the time we got to our 
destination. But much guilt was shoveled into “G’s” truck by his wife as we 
pulled out.

As for me, I had a wife in an advanced stage of pregnancy with our first 
daughter, Cheri. “Get it over with THIS month.” She insisted through clenched 
teeth. “In a couple of months I OWN you!” I saluted that cauldron of hormones 
and escaped.

"All for our common livelihood" I tried to rationalize as a frying pan followed 
me out the door.

"So where should we start?" we asked ourselves from the lobby of the mid-priced 
off-the-interstate hotel we were staying in. Across the street our eyes were 
drawn to a modest sized bar and grill. To get to it all you had to do was walk 
across a busy boulevard. It was in relatively good repair (not a dump) but it 
was not a chain. It seemed to have “local” written all over it. The name on the 
sign was “Jesters.” There was nothing obviously attractive about the place. No 
reason that I could see to crave the food. Nothing about the place seemed to 
rate the term “entertainment.” But, “G” and I had traveled the world enough to 
spot a hint of promise.

“Looks kinda local.” Was “G’s” typical simple and to the point observation. 

I hadn’t visualized that as a good thing until he said it. And then it dawned on 
me. “Local. Yeah, that’s what we want. Local people. Local bar. Local knowledge. 
It probably won’t be worth hanging out in, but somebody will know where to go if 
we ask. And if we decide to stay and get fucked up, we can walk back to the 
hotel.”

Don’t get me wrong. Jesters wasn’t that bad looking from the outside. Not nearly 
as scary looking of a place we would reluctantly follow “the mouth” into just a 
week or so later. No, I’ve been in scarier places that I ended up having a blast 
in. And when we walked in, it exceeded our expectation. A modern looking bar 
area constructed from expensive wood beams. The bar wasn’t physically separated 
from the rest of the place. More sort of adjacent to the rest of the 
establishment, but dominating the atmosphere. The entrance opened directly into 
the bar area. You walked down one side of the square bar to get to the dining 
area.

The word “dining” might not agree with an accurate description. The tables and 
chairs contrasted with the expensively constructed wooden bar. We sat down at a 
table that belonged in an inner city diner. Or a country restaurant that expects 
to serve fishermen for breakfast and construction workers for lunch. That 
signaled two things to us. The food would be simple and not too pricey (good). 
And that Jesters was set up to entertain lounge lizards, not family diners (even 
better). The latter impression was reinforced by the stage in one corner that 
was broken down for the night but was clearly intended to be used by some kind 
of live music entertainment. Maybe they did live music on a weekend we figured. 
But that also signaled that the young adult crowd that was already in the place, 
although thin at the moment, was the clientele. Given the location of the place, 
they were probably local clientele. And probably the numbers would pick up as 
the evening wore on as more and more young urban professionals got off work, 
followed by the late night “closer” crowd from the restaurants, bars, and maybe 
even the titty joints.

Yep, hope for ole Jesters was improving by the minute. Then the “waiter” came 
by. A young twenty something guy in a white apron. He kinda looked like he 
doubled as the bus boy. Maybe he was the busboy, doubling as the server during 
the slow period before hip people started showing up later.  Anyway, he was 
obviously local, so we couldn’t resist asking him for advice. We downed our 
first beers as fast as possible and started cutting up happy that the stress of 
getting here was over so the carousing could begin.

“So, we’re from out of town.” One of us said.

He listened to that confession with no change in expression, as if to say “like 
THAT wasn’t obvious.”

I continued. “We’re planning on eating here and then heading out somewhere else. 
Got any ideas of some happening places to go locally?”

He could have blown us off. Given us the run around. Sent us ANYWHERE as long as 
he wasn’t likely to go there just to avoid the embarrassment of it all. Mixing 
tourists with cool people? Perish the thought!

But, he was hardly a poster child for “cool people.” He was the busboy for God’s 
sake. So he thought about it for a second and made a surprising observation, to 
me at least.
 
“This place is actually pretty good. Give it some time and it will fill up with 
a couple different crowds. We’ll get a lot of regulars in a couple of hours. And 
then the closing crowd will come in. We stay open later for the locals.”

“Well, that’s interesting.” One of us suggested, not really convinced. He kinda 
got the message and started reeling off names and locations of other places and 
the likely events at those places on a work week night. Not real promising was 
his final analysis. And, anyway, HE knew where all the places were located that 
he had just reeled off. Our heads were spinning, not having come close to 
keeping up with his fast paced advice. And, of course, taking notes was out of 
the question. That’s not something wannabe cool people do.

In response to our obvious confusion, he had pity and returned to his original 
advice.

“But really, it’s about as good here as anywhere. And the slut comes here. I 
guess you can call her the ‘house’ slut.”

The look we gave him could have been equal to shouting “What the fuck! What did 
you just say?”

We looked at each other and realized that regardless of whether this kid was 
pulling our leg or not, this unguarded comment was just the sort of line that we 
could turn into a joke that would never end. The more we drank, the more “house 
slut” would be inserted into every conversation. Kind of like how the word 
“fuck” has become a necessary part of every young person’s grammar, to be used 
in every sentence more than once. So, we immediately launched into a cynical 
investigation.

“House slut?” I said real slow, to emphasize what a novel idea this was to the 
two of us. Even after years of licentious carousing with friends that thought 
exactly like I did about the opposite sex, I had never heard an employee of a 
food or beverage establishment make the claim, apparently seriously, that it was 
stalked, or maybe haunted, by a woman that could be called a “slut” right out in 
the open. It wasn’t like he was judgmentally calling her a “bitch” or a “cunt” 
or anything else that might imply condescension. Nope, he seemed to be 
describing her as she really was. How she wanted to be. How she regularly acted 
so that significant numbers of people came to agree that she was a slut that 
pursued her thing so often in THIS establishment that she had earned herself a 
brand as the “house” slut like she was the cheap wine you buy by the carafe. 
Despite sarcastic and pointed questioning by us, he stuck to his guns. He simply 
repeated.

“She might be around tonight. Maybe you’ll see her.” And then he left to do his 
waiter thing, when he wasn’t doing his busboy thing.

Multiple beers were consumed discussing the likelihood that the existence of the 
house slut could be taken at face value. We soon realized that we had neglected  
to ask him how we might recognize the house slut if she, or her ghost, showed 
up. Negligence! What were we thinking? But the business in the place was picking 
up so our server was replaced by the real one and the opportunity to interrogate 
the guy for more details vanished.

No matter. Despite having a private LONGING for being so fortunate to be in the 
sights of the house slut (or any slut), I had no hope that I would ever set eyes 
on the house slut, let alone do slutty things with her. But I couldn’t admit 
that to “G.” That would have been a sign of weakness. He would have attacked 
that confession like a Viking raiding party. Nope, I secretly drank away my 
jealously for all the other guys that had enjoyed the making of the house slut’s 
reputation. If ONLY I could have been them for a night. Maybe an hour. I’d have 
taken a blowjob in the parking lot for Christ’s sake! As I sat there feeling 
sorry for myself, I pushed it out of my mind. Even if the house slut were to 
show up (hopefully with a sign on her head announcing who she was), I would 
never get the time of day from her. It would be just my luck that she’d overlook 
me for some guy sitting next to me. Then I’d have to watch and listen to her 
slobber all over him. Arggh! If ONLY the house slut would show up and want ME! I 
thought to myself.

“Be careful what you wish for” is what I should have said.

As the night wore on, we moved to the bar and all that the busboy had said came 
to pass, at least short of the house slut. The place steadily filled up. Pretty 
girls in a gaggle over there. Guys and gals on the other side of the bar. All 
seemed to fit into one group or another. Local for sure. But “G” and I were 
content for now. Long past the urge to try to find any of the other locations 
that we had been given. We couldn’t even remember what he had said about them or 
even their names, let alone where to find the joints. And they probably weren’t 
going to be better than here anyway. Not on a middle-of-the-week work night. 
Under these conditions, is it any wonder that the “house slut” had faded from 
our conversation? It had become more like a silly tall tale. And so we forgot 
about the whole matter.

Instead, we had discovered a typical bar game. Nowadays, it’s all about video 
games sitting on the most promising parts of the bar: The corners. In Jesters at 
that time, it was a long, and expensive, miniature shuffleboard game. You were 
supposed to put quarters into it, but we discovered that money only produced 
electronic score keeping. We didn’t care about that. We could play the game with 
the metal pucks without feeding the machine money. So we did. Laughing. Cutting 
up. Drinking. The game gave each player ample time to rest against the bar while 
the other player putzed around taking his shot.

During one of those moments while waiting, I leaned against the bar near the 
corner and gazed, because I was facing that direction anyway, at this women in a 
red top sitting at the bar. She was attractive. Very attractive. And so I 
stared. I didn’t mean to make it obvious, and maybe it wasn’t. But on that side 
of the bar, which was on the side with the shuffleboard machine and just a few 
bars tools down from the restaurant’s entrance, she was nearly alone. She kind 
of stood out sitting at the bar and so I decided to enjoy the eye candy. I 
couldn’t see below the bar what she was wearing. But I could see her red knit 
top just fine. Her tight torso highlighted some very very nice boobs. Probably 
some kind of push up bra enhancing what was already nearly C-cup (soon enough I 
would get close enough to know). She seemed unbelievably sexy to me in my 
condition at that time. She was an upper twenty something, or maybe young thirty 
something. Just like me. And the more I looked at her, the more I became 
aroused.

“Damn,” I thought to myself, “she’s hot.”

Not wanting to be a creep, and with “G” needing some abuse, I turned my 
attention away. But I kept looking back to this chick. Then she really caught my 
attention. Sitting on her bar stool like some diva in an old Hollywood movie, 
she pulled out her cosmetic case and started dolling herself up. For the moment 
I didn’t know why. It seemed an odd place to do it. Most chicks are too self 
conscious to primp and proper at the bar like that. I didn’t realize, of course, 
that I was looking at the house slut doing the equivalent of what a soldier does 
who is about to enter combat:  “LOCK and LOAD dog faces! Don’t shoot until you 
see the whites of their eyes.”

All that would become obvious a short while later. But for now, it made the eye 
candy experience all the more interesting. But at that moment  it was still far 
away. Seemingly no closer to becoming a personal self-esteem building experience 
than meeting Snow White. She smiled into her mirror as she dolled up. I decided 
afterwards that the smile was because she saw me gawking in her peripheral 
vision. But for now, it seemed like she was ignoring me completely in favor of 
admiring herself. Typical woman I thought. A momentary fantasy arose in my head 
about some mythical romance with THAT hot looking chick.

Then “G” hollered for me to come take my shot and my attention was diverted away 
from the hot chick in the red top doing her make up. I played my shot (I forget 
how I did, probably nothing heroic) and returned to the bar. I knew my next shot 
would come quickly so I returned to a point closest to the end of the 
shuffleboard table. Instead of sitting around the corner, now I was perched 
without sitting at the edge of the bar just a few stools down from the chick. I 
was facing out looking at “G” and waiting my turn. My elbows were back behind me 
supporting my arms as they rested on the edge of the bar. My fists lightly 
curled up. My body at a slack angle away from the bar. Feeling totally relaxed 
and devil may care. I was looking at the shuffleboard machine, and not much 
else.

I may have noticed movement in my peripheral vision, but she moved rather 
quickly so I didn’t see it coming. Getting up from her bar stool after having 
stowed the cosmetic case to ready herself for combat, she just walked the few 
steps to where I was and turned to stand directly in front of me, about one foot 
away, to deliver her line. A guy couldn’t have delivered the pick up line any 
better.

“I’m the prettiest girl in this bar, and I’ve chosen YOU tonight.”

I may live to a ripe old age, but I’m pretty sure that will be the last time ANY 
woman says that to me. At least in that way.

Going from a totally unattainable fantasy to an all too real encounter like that 
can cause a man to self destruct. Your mouth refuses to engage to form a 
coherent sound, let alone a sentence. What was a second before an easy 
spontaneous conversation with “G,” was now a shocking lack of situational 
awareness. Fortunately, I had had enough to drink to be uninhibited, but not too 
much to be foolish or worse boorish. I somehow kept my composure despite the 
surreal feeling that I had been dropped into the set of a beer commercial 
without seeing the script first.

Her lips upturned slightly as she maintained unyielding eye contact, secure in 
her mind what this frontal assault must be doing to my ability to think. Forget 
about killing me with kindness, she was killing me with a lack of subtlety. In 
thinking through this moment, again and again during many masturbations, as well 
as other idle moments not masturbating I still have to marvel at her purpose and 
willingness, or experience, that allowed her to figure out what she was wanted 
from me and then to take a direct approach to get it. This was something Farrow 
might call “communication.” Some other folks, like Ms. Manners, might argue it 
was over communication that should be avoided. But whatever, she had said it. I 
didn’t dream this, although I might have dreamed something like it as part of a 
fantasy with no hope it would or could ever be realized.

Now I had to deal with the fact that it was realized. What the fuck do I say or 
do NOW in response to THAT? And she was waiting for a response. I didn’t want to 
melt down. I’ve got to say SOMETHING and I’ve got to figure out what that is 
NOW. I was shocked by how ill prepared I was for this moment. For crying out 
loud, “G” and I had been anticipating this trip for months. We had planned out 
not just the job portion of the trip, but the fun portion too. We had fought 
through a fucking ice storm to get here. Just three or four hours before we had 
ASKED the waiter/busboy how to find just THIS sort of action. And he had TOLD us 
about the house slut.

Had he really been trying to warn us? Here I had been feeling jealous and sorry 
for myself because THIS would never happen to me. And now it had just happened! 
Well, not everything had happened. She hadn’t said “I choose you and that means 
I’m going to be a submissive porn star for the rest of the night while you fuck 
me in every hole twice!” But neither was this some murky flirting with hours of 
probe and feint before your fate is determined:  Go home with her, or go home 
alone. All of the defenses to avoid adultery were supposed to be built into this 
tiresome process of the bar pick up. But she had just circumvented ALL of it! 
The gradual defense I counted on was ripped from me like weak armor.

What was I to do? The tired movie gimmick comes to mind. You know the one where 
an angel poofs onto one shoulder and a devil onto the other. Both giving 
opposing advice.

“Turn her away! You have a pregnant wife at home!” the angel shouts.

“But she chose YOU! It would be rude to blow her off,” counters the devil.

Back and forth.

Something finally popped into my mind and then flowed out of my mouth. Not 
unlike last October, when that little jailbait kitten stopped me during my 
football game road trip. "Hiss!" she said. "Hey sweetheart." I said.

What did come out of my mouth didn’t address the situation, it just postponed 
the moment of reckoning. Until the near future. The very near future.

“Well, that’s nice.” I heard myself say. “Hey, look it’s my shot. Why don’t you 
come over and meet my friend ‘G’.”

Her face showed faint surprise at the suggestion, but then she telegraphed that 
she could go along with that suggestion for now. After all, this was real life, 
not some ASSTR story. Obviously, she had done this before (duh, she didn’t get 
the name “house slut” for nothing!) so she was probably already expecting a 
pretty casual response. After all, she hadn’t proposed marriage (I had that 
happen once in college by a girl who neglected telling me her name first). Nor 
did she offer sex directly. So an invitation to “tag along” with me was probably 
about the average response she could expect. As she would, in "G's" words, 
“shamelessly” show soon enough, she was confident that the hook was reasonably 
set and that I was on the line. Nor was she finished with the “Ms. Direct and to 
the Point” act. In her mind, she’d be able to land me. When I think back on it 
now, that’s what I know SHE was thinking. At the time I was still trying to 
think, so stalling was MY real motive.

So we walked over to the table and I introduced her quickly to my friend who, 
not having the benefit of the introduction, was thinking "why the fuck is this 
hottie suddenly talking to Dan?" But he played it cool, flying wing man as 
smoothly as possible. I bent over the table to make a play while she waited.

Then I straightened back up and made some small talk, the contents of which are 
thankfully lost to history. But she was still standing there hungrily eying her 
catch and probably wondering why I wasn't pawing her boobs. It was then that my 
eyes fully drank in the ruby red lipstick and the whore like way she had dolled 
herself up. Even better was the smell of cheap perfume that I suddenly realized 
was surrounding her like a wafe of smoke. It was powerful, and not refined in 
the least. I don't know what cheap perfume is, but she was so completely doused 
in it that I didn't have to try hard to notice it because my beer-assisted 
mental process kept coming up with "cheap fuck-me perfume." I was persuaded 
then, and now 17 years later, that whatever it was, the purpose of this scent 
was to signal "fuck me NOW!"

Then momentary salvation from "G."

"Dan, it's your fuckin turn."

I smiled at the House Slut and bent back over the table. The House Slut must 
have decided that I had underestimated the sincerity of her offer. If I was not 
going to start loving on her with octopus hands within the first 5 minutes of 
our "relationship" then she would go the extra mile to make it clear that I 
should not feel inhibited. It was time to show me that practically nothing would 
be denied me beginning right then and there. Her method of communicating this 
was to bend over my back and introduce me to her ample boobs. The boobs that I 
had not thought to paw in public (usually a no-no that ends a promising evening 
on contact) were now smooshed on my back. But this chick didn't get the title 
"House Slut" by being subtle, and this was still too subtle, so next thing I 
knew she was rubbing her boobs across my back in a circular motion that once I 
realized what was happening caused an involuntary reaction on my part. Nope, not 
an erection. That's for a silly porn story. I felt the heat well up in my face 
as a crimson blush like I never remembered exposed my intense (and I mean 
intense) feeling of embarrassment. What she thought had to be kindling 
unquenchable lust was producing in me a "Dog just caught the car now what does 
he do with it?" moment.

We three were in close quarters at this point, nearly touching, so "G" was more 
than just a distant witness to this public show. He was more like a bystander to 
an accident happening right in front of him. As I straightened up with the 
embarrassment now turning to a panicked feeling of shame as though I had 
actually fucked her and awakened in a strange bed with my cheating virginity 
broken when in fact nothing of the sort had happened. She waited for me to 
recognize that, at least on this night and with this woman, I could forget the 
normal prohibition of "look but don't touch" and start touching. A lot. Right 
now.

Instead, I looked at "G" and he looked at me and then he just blurted out 
"Shameless, she's just shameless."

I guess it never really occurred to either of us that she was just a normal, 
horny young adult. And, as a woman, she was at least theoretically in possession 
of the power to turn off society's enforced inhibitions at the snap of her 
fingers. How often had I dreamed of having similar power? What envy had I felt 
when the helpful waiter had predicted the nightlife we could expect in Jesters 
if we had enough patience to await the appearance of the House Slut? Now it was 
shame and panic that I felt, not dreamy hope. And here was Mr. "I'll never tell" 
(a "G" line often repeated) telling me that what he had just witnessed was 
evidence of shameless behavior on the part of a lady.

For me, extrication from the predicament I was in was all I suddenly yearned 
for. Not because she was ugly, quite the contrary, but because I just wasn't 
ready to cheat. She started her follow up by trying to melt into my arms and 
start an embrace to seal the deal so that whatever came next would start coming. 
Could I be faulted if I assumed that what was supposed to happen next was a 
quick exit to a private place to fuck? For me that was a very short walk across 
the street to my waiting hotel room. Later, after the show was over, she loudly 
informed the bar that "all she wanted to do was talk." Yeah, right. At earlier 
stage of my life I would have simply assumed she meant "get to the hotel room" 
and I would have gratefully pawed whatever I had to paw to get there.

But that was then and this was now. I slipped into a verbal distance that was 
cool in the icy meaning. Minutes later she decided that she was being stiffed 
and since the House Slut apparently did not beg, there was only one alternative. 
She stalked off in a huff, abandoning her conquest without so much as an awkward 
good bye. "G" and I went back to leaning on the bar and drinking, speaking 
almost not a word about the event. Nor would he say much about the House Slut 
for the rest of the trip, even though my pride kicked in the next day and so 
taking a victory lap by boasting appealed at least a little bit to me.

All I really had to boast about was a shirt that was absolutely permeated with 
the smell of cheap fuck perfume. Normally my business trips are too short to 
need or allow for washing my clothes. If that had been the case on this trip, I 
would have thrown my shirt and jeans away rather than tote them back home to a 
pregnant wife in her third trimester. ("Hey honey, can you add a little bleach 
to get that fuck perfume out?") Nope, clothes are not worth that. But since I 
had another two weeks of this trip to go, washing clothes was always in the 
plan. And now it was a very high priority.

The House Slut was irritated by her rejection. Crossing to the opposite side of 
the room, with the square bar between us, she held court with whatever regulars 
she called friends. The only thing I recall hearing was the loud proclamation of 
her innocent intentions, possibly prompted by one of her listeners pointing out 
that I was wearing a wedding ring.

Anyway, that was opportunity number one, of more than one on that trip, to 
loose, in the vernacular of Kelly, my cheating virginity. There is no doubt in 
my mind that unless I had caught a disease or got her pregnant (what House Slut 
worth a shit is going to let that happen?) my wife would never have known. "G" 
had already proclaimed, and was to proclaim again on that trip, that "I'll never 
tell." No one would have told. But instead of feeling like the fuck of a 
lifetime was suddenly within my grasp, not as a masturbation-driven fantasy, but 
as the realization of my hope and envy from earlier that evening, I felt only 
embarrassment. Intense embarrassment. The kind that made me want the pain to 
stop before I melted in shame.

What kind of guy acts like that? You tell me.

Love Dan

P.S. No, I have no pictures of her. Don't even bother asking. We had no cell 
phones back then, let alone cell phone cameras. :)


Chapter 7 - Tributes to Missy
=============================

I sent Dan some photos of a 14 year-old girl from my church named Missy, followed by some of her younger sister Bailey and her mom Jenny.  As the results clearly show, Dan was smitten!

*************************

Dear Kelly,

Thanks for the new photos of Missy.  She is untouchably hot for being just 14. The way she hangs her gorgeous cleavage out on that incredible body. And her pretty face and hair. She knows what she's doing to us poor males. Glad she's a slut. Too bad you can't help her with her school work.

I might "meet" Missy at a party where I have to fuck my way into her and her younger sister.  Speaking of which, her sister sounds like she would help make for a great double tribute. That would be worth a request.  Give them both to me.  I want to use them both.  I want to fuck them both while they kiss in front of me. Their mom would be encouraging us of course. She knows they will attract the type of men she craves. I can imagine her encouraging me to be the frist to fuck her 8 yo daughter.

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

I didn't finish my story, but I did finish using the little sluts in the story. Attached are some highlights of the tribute.  I tried your photo technique suggestion. I hope you like at least some of the results. I know that I did.

As you can see, Missy is in my story, and so is her sister Bailey - a lot!  A very short summary follows, so you can know what I was feeling when I used Jenny's children when I masturbated for you  although I don't technically consider Missy a child. At her age she's entitled to be completely sexually active. And a slut she is. But some people might mistake her for a child. But would it matter? I used Bailey just the same, and she's a true preteen. My cum drips on her face in the image. In fact, I was so horny for BOTH of them I couldn't decide who should get my load. I had enough precum to make Bailey a nasty cum rag. But then Missy made me blow my mind, and I emptied my balls across her tits. That might be "evidence" to test your theory below!

The fact is, Jenny caught me in the back of church after service. She was rather fresh, and I encouraged her with a line that nearly always works: extreme flattery. She liked it and told me a little secret or two. One about herself. And one about Missy. One thing led to another and a few days later I'm on Jenny's kitchen floor fucking Missy in front of Jenny - and Bailey. You see, Jenny believes in teaching. Teaching masturbation by communal example. And teaching sex by watching. Jenny masturbates Bailey while I fuck Missy. Jenny may be a little jealous, so she keeps trying to get my attention using Bailey's genitals and nasty encouragement, all to Missy's annoyance. I waffle on where I will shoot my huge load, and there is not time to spare because my orgasm is right here! Just like a man to not be able to control the final seconds. But consider the unfair stimulation I'm getting!  In the story, the cum shot can't wait, and it has to go somewhere. I'll let you think about, and suggest if you like, what actually happened. The attached tribute might help your speculation.

Love,
Dan

P.S. As to your analysis of what I might really do in real life, you're definitely right, it would not be with a 4-8 yo. But it could definitely be with a 10-14 yo. The former is a taboo fantasy. It only becomes sexually stimulating when iot remains a fantasy. In real life, toddlers and early preteens are not sexual to me at all. I'm just a normal guy. When they become late preteens and early teens, they begin to appear in a sexually appealing way, because their young bodies are budding, or because their clothes are highly suggestive, or because they ACT curious about ME, either because they seek my attention to validate their self esteem or because they are realizing their first bouts of lust (I've encountered both). Well, it's fair game at that point. Except for the law of course. I don't cross any lines that would get me banned from you (at least not THOSE lines) or cause me to end up as a forced guest in an unpleasant place. But when I was much younger, young enough to legally pursue such young hotties, well I had an experience or two that leaves me with wonderful fantasies of that age group.

The difference is that the very young ones are sexually interesting ONLY in fantasies, while the older ones are fantasies because they ARE sexually interesting. I'm sure you understand that difference. In fact, it is my interpretation of your analysis.

P.S.S. Thanks for the wonderfully slutty friends of MIssy. I hope they were all fucking at that age. What a bi gang bang we could have with them. And you're right, Missy has the shortest dress of the lot!

*************************

Dear Kelly,

I can see that Missy got her tits from - her mom. I love that slutty top her mom is wearing. I hope she is teaching Bailey how to hang her tits out and troll for men when she inherits them. That's a few years away though.  For now Bailey's flat chest and hairless pussy would be my happy cum target.

And who can resist Missy flashing her tits in her bikini top, daring me to call her slutty bluff?

There's more of this tribute to send you but I have a lot of family obligations the next couple of days so I will be hard to find.  But that doesn't mean I'm not thinking of YOU!  What kind of erection would you see if it was your mouth that was pleasuring my cock? You can see what Missy can do. Imagine what YOU would do!

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

More of my hard cock, only for you. The dirty sluts you gave me might have got my cock hard, but only you would be allowed to empty my balls. Wouldn't you like to grip the shaft of my blood engorged rod? What would you do with it? Jerking it off into the mouth of the little fuck toy Bailey would be ok with me. Would you do it if we then made Bailey watch while I pounded your pussy next? When you started to drip my cum, I'd let you pick who would be next. I'll bet I know who it would be. But like it or not, a promise is a promise...

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

Just to remind yo that no matter who I cum on, when I masturbate I always think of you. And your little sluts that you ask my to have sex with. Attached are sample of my fuck sessions with my cock pushed hard through their little clits, receiving oral sex from their sucking mouths, and tit fucking Missy's gorgeous (you must admit) cleavage.

Love,
Dan

*************************

Kelly,

I'm only sorry I chose the 4 yo whore instead of the slut you would have liked me to cum on. But I had to make a quick decision (lol) and you seem not to be too disappointed in me that the little bikini girl got splattered by my sperm. Thanks for your confidence.

In real life, I ogle the hot little Missy's that come my way too. In fact, my oldest daughter Cheri had a friend that looked just like her. She moved away though.  If I was in church with you I'd be sure to pester you to introduce me to MIssy. And let's face it, if you were a man, you'd fuck Missy in a heart beat. Ha, you might anyway! After all, you like my daughters enough to tease me with the mental image of you eating their pussy while I fuck you. What's the difference between that and Missy? I know, I know, you're a daddy's girl!

But I like you thinking and even masturbating to the thought of my hard cock in Missy's cunt. In real life, I'd risk a lot to put it there.

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

Haven't heard from you in awhile. I enjoy chatting from time to time. Attached are some pure Missy tributes I did for you today. I'll make the time to send you the rest soon plus a story about how I would fuck Missy. Always have to share that with you too, eh?

Before I did this tribute I masturbated while fantasizing about Missy. She gets used pretty hard at one of those daddy-daughter parties. She is sooo pretty, the boys and men line up to use all her holes. Who knows? That might have already really happened if she's the slut you think she is.

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

Attached is a bunch more of my latest tribute to Missy. But there are more to cum. You'll get those in later emails soon. Hope you like these. I think Missy is hot. I think she should drip my cum from her pussy, but is that any surprise? I am a man.

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

What man doesn't dream of flooding the inside of a gorgeous young girl's vagina with his semen? The feeling of liquid goo forced up and out of my cock by my jerking orgasm is indescribable. Men can never get enough. But to pump ropes of sperm into her young body while my hard cock is forced into her incredibly tiny passage is beyond my wildest fantasy. Do you wish you could feel it too? 

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

All the rest of my dedicated tribute to fucking tight 14 yo pussy and cumming in Missy's face is attached. I would have fulfilled my promise and sent 100 (99 actually) but I culled out the few blurry ones. Sorry, but YOU try stroking a rock hard cock in one hand while looking at the most gorgeous 14 yo face I could imagine and take pictures at the same time. Recipe for a few blurry? I think so.

Love,
Dan

P.S. I'll be out of town for most of next week. You know how naughty I can get on the road. What little girl is your next target?

*************************

Dear Kelly,

How do you like the pictures of my sperm dripping down the slut's face? Left in the pew by the hot school teacher that sent me her images in the first place? Naughty, naughty, naughty!  What a wonderful mental image. It made my dick stir. You can be so unpredictable at times. I guess that's why I like you so much.

You know I would love to hear more about her family. What are they like? Especially her mother. Remember, I still want to finish writing a little story about how Missy got used by my cock (and a bunch of others) and any detail will help.

While you were sitting behind Missy, I was sitting behind playmate. What a coincidence. Naughty thoughts in church are something we seem to share in common. As my wife and I walked to a reception after church service, my fantasy playmate was right in front of us. As she opened the door, the wind suddenly gusted and kicked up her skirt like Marilyn Monroe. She caught the skirt just before I got a chance to see what kind of panties SHE was wearing (I found out only later that my wife had a thong on). My wife and her laughed and then my wife told her "That dress you're wearing is so pretty!" Playmate smiled, looked at me, and thanked her.

You can guess what I was thinking. "Hey dear, you up for a three way with playmate?"

I am a man you know.

Love,
Dan


Chapter 8 - Tributes to Kathy
==============================

Note:  Once again I found Dan's soft spot - or should I say HARD spot.  I sent 
       him some photos of the 12 year-old that was my youngest bridesmaid along 
       with some photos of her with her MILF mom.  Dan’s reaction was as 
       predictable as it was hot!

Dear Kelly,

Marriage produces new opportunities. I'll hope for the best in the future.

I love the new photos you sent me of Kathy.  You know I'd love to see Kathy's 12 year-old little girl's pussy with her mom's tongue buried deep between her child's vulva. Imagine mom looking up at the both of us with her own child's pussy juice smeared on her lips and face and casually explain "I'm committed to help my child learn to masturbate. She IS my daughter you know." And then lick her lips of the girls juice and add "mmmmm, she does taste good. Would you like some too?"

Kinda sets the stage for a shot of cum on the both of them, don't you think? I'm trying to sort out when I can make that happen. Love to get you wet and slutty with a new tribute soon.

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

As you can see by the attachments, I just blew my cum on Kathy and her mom!

Mmmmm. As I jerked off onto their pretty faces, I was thinking about fucking Kathy's tight 12 year old cunt while she lay in her mom's lap. Kathy's legs are spread and she's propped up on her elbows between her mom's legs. Her mom is still fully clothed in the dress in the picture. I'm pounding away in the tight juicy preteen pussy, with my rigid cock ramming in her body and my pelvis slamming into the child's groin.

As I fuck Kathy, I look directly into mom's eyes while snarling degrading comments about her daughter and her tight cunt.

"I'm fucking your 12 year old whore, you nasty bitch. Did you hear me? I said I'm fucking your little whore."

"BEG ME TO FUCK HER HARDER!" I demand. And her mom does. With glistening eyes, she says everything I insist she say, while using her daughter's body for my own sexual pleasure in front of her eyes.

As I feel myself losing control, I whip my cock out of the child's body, grab Kathy by her hair and force her to her knees while I jerk my cock off in her face. I scream out that she is a dirty little cum whore that deserves to eat my nasty sperm while I writhe in ecstasy as my cock spurts cum on the child's face and hair. Then, while continuing my grip on the little girl's hair, I yank her back from her mom's lap and use my free hand to pull up her mom's dress and yank with all my strength the woman's little black bikini panties down her thighs as quickly as I can. That's when I push Kathy's cum covered face into her mom's hairy pussy and return to hissing my nastiest, most degrading inner feelings about her and her daughter right to mom's face with an unflinching stare in the woman's pathetic eyes. 

I hear you speak up from the other side of the room, where you have been watching and masturbating the entire time while I fucked Kathy.

"Nice fuck, but you weren't her first, cowboy. I made Kathy's mom give her little girl to my dad for deflowering on his last birthday. Did he break her in enough for you, big boy?"

That breaks the spell and my attention turns away from mom as I twist my head to look at you.

"The little slut may not be a virgin," I reply with a rueful smile, "but she's still only 12 and it sure felt like my cock was buried in a child's virginal pussy!"

What would you say to that?

Enjoy,
Dan


Chapter 9 - Thoughts About My Daughters
=======================================

Note: Dan is always trying to say how he doesn’t have sexual feelings for his 
      daughters yet he is always sending me photos of them at the beach, in 
      their short Sunday dresses and in their night clothes around the house.  
      He even went so far as to sneak into his oldest daughter’s room and 
      photograph her underwear drawer.  Now and then he slips and lets his true 
      feelings show...

Dear Kelly,

So eloquent. Sooo nasty. I like that about you.

If you want to know what I see when I'm tapping away chatting with you, and smiling at the irony, and humor, and depravity of it all, take a peek at the attached image.

As you can see my daughters are so close that they can tell something is amusing me and so they ask, "Daddy, what are you smiling about?" Or "Look at Daddy! So intently staring at his computer screen." (Which thankfully they can't see.)

If I said "Kelly, that's what!" they wouldn't know what I was talking about. At least at first. Imagine if I told them?  As you know, Amanda's my favorite.  Do you think you could convince her to take care of her dad the way you take care of yours?  Can you imagine that red hair flowing around my crotch while she sucks my dick?  Then those incredible athletic legs wrapped around me while I pound her the way every father should do to his daughter?

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

Of course I jerk off about Amanda.  Isn't it natural for any father to masturbate about his teenage daughter?  Besides, isn't every daddy's girl going to be fucked by someone sometime? Your dad gets to see this up close and personal, but even I know it will happen to Amanda and Cheri and Kathy. At least I hope so. What's life without sex?  Of course imagine how much better it would be if I was that guy!

And like you said, shouldn't men wanting them be taken as a sign of self worth? Of course, if somebody said this to Amanda as explicitly as you did, she would DIE. But that won't change what the men do, now will it?

I did have to laugh. As we were exchanging emails about Amanda's short dress habits, mom and daughters were all watching an episode of "What Not To Wear". It was the slutty-dressed law student. And they rammed it down her throat that she needed to ditch her slut wardrobe by asking her fiance if he wanted his 8 year old daughter to dress like her when his daughter was "13 or 14". He said "she won't make it to that age if she does..."

I could be wrong, but I suspect THAT kind of attitude won't make it in Kelly land.

Love,
Dan

*************************

Kelly,

So how about some skin courtesy of my favorite daughter? Do you like what I just sent you?  As you can see, Amanda chose to wear a mini-skirt today that was even shorter than usual. She fussed at me for yanking out the camera but I caught a few anyway as you can see. If she only knew about this demanding hot and horny chick named Kelly, would she understand?  I'd be happy if she just posed for her dad - without the skirt of course!

Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

A bit more Christmas to go under your tree. Or better yet, maybe your fingers will wander down to your pussy?

Two of the images of my daughters contain more than meets the eye at first. The first image has a few in the high school church group singing in the choir during Christmas service. But one of the faces is not in high school anymore. She in fact got you and I back together after your site went off line (for good this time you tell me). The dark haired girl several spots down on the first row looking directly into the camera. That's her.

The third image has more of what you like in the foreground. See, I know how you feel about Cheri!  But in the background you see a group of people, including a woman in a red coat in the spot light. She has a 6th grade daughter whose back is to the camera (with pony tail). Daughter and I play eye flirt. Could she become another playmate? Who knows. A bit young, but all the better.

You make me so naughty. When my daughters have looked at some of the leg shots I've taken on the camera, we all cut up sometimes. But they don't really know why these pictures are being taken. Just imagine if they knew the real reason why I take them?

Hugs and kisses,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

Do you like Amanda's Sunday school clothes from this morning? The front was better, but you'll have to come here and try taking the picture yourself if you want it. The second image was the best I could do with that red-haired temper of hers. But I did have a little fun with my two playmates in church. Almost as good as yesterday's "eight eye stare." I'll write some more about it if you're interested. Is a fun weekend for one of your pervs a good one for you?

Watched the game. Looked cold in pghpa. Afterward, we watched "Grease" on DVD. When Rizo looked at the T-birds and said "this ain't no gang bang" I couldn't help but think of you. :)

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

Does Amanda's tennis outfit surprise you? She's not our best tennis player (Cheri's awesome) but on the court tonight, Amanda was the hottest girl there. Her outfit was so tight you could see her panty lines. She's gonna have to think about a thong I guess. I was proud of her and I bet I wasn’t the only dad with a hard-on after seeing her. But maybe not so obvious in the image. Oh well, consider me a work in progress.

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

You know I want to make you happy. I know you won't give up hope in me.  A weekend in the future is coming where I've arranged for all my girls to go away. Anything could happen THAT weekend.

Speaking of nice ass, playmate is still making me hard. A hint of spring is in the air today and all the chicks in church were stepping up their outfits to hot or hotter. My wife competed with her daughters today. I'll share an image later and you can tell me who won.

And playmate was feeling her oats, too. Clingy black dress just above the knees with 4+ inch pumps. HOT! And every time I think she has cashiered our play time, she comes on hotter than ever. Today made me laugh at how overt the flirting was. And on top of that, she always its in the perfect spot to play, even if "we" move. As I've told you before, my father-in-law picks our seating. Today he moved us up a row for some reason so that I had a couple of squirrelly coeds behind me for a change. But when I got in to church, playmate had moved up a row and claimed the seat to my left front that I like best. Wasn't that sweet of playmate?

But what nearly broke me down was my wife's gesture later in the service. I was looking off into space while standing when I felt an urgent tap on my wrist. I looked down and to the left to see my wife pointing directly at playmate's butt! Then I spied the real object of her attention. Playmate wears one of those plastic colored wristbands that are popular now to bring attention to one cause or another. Her right hand was behind her butt with a wrist band concerning a local student athlete that had been injured. My wife and I are running in a 5K race soon to benefit the same student, and that was what she was pointing at. The moment came and went too fast to permit it, but I had an almost uncontrollable naughty urge to lean down and whisper to my wife "yes, playmate's ass IS hot today, isn't it?"

Can you imagine if you had been next to me? You would have known what I was talking about!

I've been trying to figure out a casual way to bring a camera into church so I can snap an image of playmate for you. In about two months or so, the perfect opportunity may arise. We'll see!

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

As you can see I was pretty horny for my daughters today. I imagined I had good daughters urging me to pleasure myself with the cute fuck toy they brought home to baby-sit. I promised my hot teenage girls to cum in them next, but I lost control dragging my cock through the soft folds of the little girl's cunt. And when Amanda took my cock in her hand and put it against the little girl's pussy lips and said "Daddy, PUSH!" well, I admit I was weak and came in a gusher when I felt the resistance from the 4 year-old's too tight vaginal opening.

All three laughed and forgave me though. While Kathy licked up my sperm from the fuck toy's used labia, Cheri and Amanda promised to find me some more hot girls of fucking age to get me hard again.

Look what they found! And wow were they right about my cock. Good daughters usually know how to give their daddy's cock a helping hand, don't you think?

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

I realized the timing might be just right after I sent the email and thought about it. You might see it before going to church, and that's when you would want to have naughty thoughts about Missy fresh in your mind. So would I if I went to church with you and saw that incredibly hot young teen. She really is smokin.

I went to church today for the first time in three weeks. (Topsy turvy weekend schedules with travel.) Of course I saw playmate, and the 10-11 yo I would love to be playmate II. Both were cute. And there were a few other little hotties as cute as Missy and about the same age. In other words, I didn't suffer.

There was even a little funny story about playmate and my wife this morning. But I'll bore you with that only if you're interested. After all, you are so anxious to see what's in my daughters' lingerie drawer, it seems that is all that matters. Sigh. I guess I'll have to trudge upstairs soon.

For me, lingerie had a different context today. My wife was dressed red hot for church. Her gym time has led to an incredible transformation in her weight and figure. Person after person came up to us both to tell her how much they've noticed her "improvement." (Later her remark was: "It gets tiresome after awhile." Oh woe is me...) Yeah, I've noticed too. Something about those skin tight leggings and pussy high pullover top with a low scoop and matching pumps. For once, it was more fun to watch her than the other "Missy's" in the place. The best part was as we walked to the parking lot after the post church service reception. She looked at me, after all the fawning over her looks this morning, and she says "and no panty lines!" She was letting me know that she was wearing the thong that we had picked out together in V.S. a few months back.

If you knew my wife, you would know that bragging to me about wearing a thong is a big improvement in her attitude about herself and her willingness to do things to please me. After all, I've been encouraging her to think of herself as sexy enough to wear young woman's clothing for awhile. A long while.

Could you be any part of this? Maybe. You encouraged me to think of sex as "right" rather than "wrong" (naughty is ok, wrong is not). I've been encouraging her since then. You've said that you suspect that "infidelity" with you helps at least some marriages. Could you be having that effect virtually? Sounds like a good thesis topic. You should go back to graduate school!

Love,
Dan

P.S. Ok, I'll assume you want to see the rest of the images with my cock over Missy and her friends. Not to mention the wad of sperm on her face, which belongs there, don't you think? 

*************************

Dear Kelly,

I was thinking about doing another tribute on a little girl. Pick a little one that you want me to fantasize about and I'm sure I'll find time between partying to give you a big tribute on a dirty little slut.  The younger the better.

My daughters went to a movie today and I trudged upstairs like I promised and caught the scene in Cheri's room. It's just like a teenager to leave "discarded" panties lying on the floor where I had to step over them. I decided to show them to you in an image or two. Her mom would have a hissy if she saw her dirty panties just lying on the floor like that. Then I opened her drawer to give you a peek at the rest of them. See? I try to make you happy when I can.  I have to say I was "inspired" enough to take a sniff - first time I ever actually did that with any of my daughters' panties.  Made me feel so guilty but still needed to jerk off after.

Do you think about making me happy, too? My dick gets hard for you when motivated by a young thing that you pick out. Who you get this week is up to you. Choose wisely. :)

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

Amanda had one of the hotter boys hanging around her today after church. Chatter in the back on the way home was "he has a crush on Amanda." Looking at her skirt this morning, what do you think would make him feel that way?  I know how it made me feel!

Mom tried on the same skirt after church. Looked hot on her too although she's shorter than Amanda so doesn't look quite as edgy. Amanda cooled her heels standing in our master bath in her just panties while mom pranced around. I couldn't create a picture moment in time (nor am I quite sure how I would have given the creepiness of it). Too bad. You'd prefer seeing Amanda IN her panties rather than seeing her panties in her drawer, wouldn't you?  Trust me, she looked HOT.  I can never get enough of those legs.

Love,
Dan

*************************

Cheri and Prom
Wednesday, April 20, 2011 12:28 AM

Dear Kelly,

Attached are Cheri and her prom date. The guy is just a friend. Probably not your type. Not Cheri's either. But he was probably wishing it were different.  Had me wishing I was her date.

The third to the last one is Amanda at church the next day. Thought you'd like to see her. I use any excuse to take more of her when she looks she did today.  Do you think I was the only one who went home and jerked off after seeing her?

The second to the last one is a typical Palm Sunday on Bourbon Street. Amanda, and me, and happy hour (that never ends). Light crowd, of course, but the clubs were blasting and it was pretty alive. I was holding a beer when I snapped the image. She did a nice job of hamming it up by looking back at the street sign. If Amanda had not been there to chaperone me, might I have disappeared in a favorite club to try my luck? Wouldn't be the first time...  Then again maybe I should have taken her with me.

The last one is what I saw right of Amanda after we finished chatting. You like?  I jerked off plenty later as you might have guessed.

Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

I'm on the road with Amanda and Cheri at a tournament. After the game, this little vixen on their team stripped off her jersey and pulled on the tie die top. Nowadays, teenage girls playing sports think nothing of changing tops with a sports bra on, which doesn't usually offer much to comment. But this little girl (shortest on the team) has grown a gorgeous set of ta ta's.  While she changed, I happened to be standing on the bleacher above her looking straight down into that wonderful cleavage. I saw, in my imagination, your face, with eyes peering unflinching into mine while your tongue swished my warm sperm from between the girl's tits.

A minute before she started her strip tease, I had my camera out recording the game action. But I couldn't pull off a look-down-her-bra-into-that-cleavage picture with my camera fast enough. But when I (and she) noticed that her tie-die top didn't cover anymore of her big tits than her sports bra, I took this image for posterity (and you).

In my opinion, this hot blooded 16 yo is the wildest one in the bunch. She's probably a 16-yo slut, and even money says she's already pulled a train.  Wish I had been on board.

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

Happy Mothers' day! We were up early to play so I got some of them, and an appendix to the "Distracted" story.

The first one shows too tired soccer warriors as they looked while we were chatting last night. By the next morning, they were recharged and ready for the early morning game. I know it may not mean much to you, but this is actually a rare sight for me. Never in all the years that we've been doing this has both of them played side by side on a club team. Yes, they play together in high school, but this is different. Amanda is playing "up" as a guest player on her big sister Cheri's team. The reason? Amanda goes by another nickname on the field:  "The Beast."

As you can see, after the game we stopped at a local Starbucks. That's where the tale of distraction continues. Inside was a little 11 yo (barely I estimate) dressed like either a slut in training or a porn star wannabee in a Paris-style chic strapless sack dress with a hem just a couple of inches below the pussy line. You know, the kind where you have to shave your pubes to keep them from taking a peek out from the bottom of your dress? Except for this little slut, I doubt shaving her pussy is an issue yet. Her 4 inch heels boosted her modest 11 yo height more than is stylish, except if your an 11 yo nowadays!  But the best part was that her barely budding bust could not hold up her dress. "Barely budding" is kind since most of what I could see was the gathering that supposed to cover her tits. And as I watched she kept clutching the top of her dress to keep it from falling down.

To show you how much I think of you, I ran out to my car to get my camera while they were waiting at the coffee bar for their drinks. By the time I made it back, I had to contrive a pose of Cheri to catch the 11 yo slut, her little sister, and the fucked up mom that dresses her daughter like a porn star. If you look at the first picture you can see the heels. If you look at the second picture (with Cheri to show you how I contrived this for you) you can see the sunglasses, the gorgeous little fuck-my-mouth face, and the top that won't catch the boobs that aren't there.

I think your dad and I would share a passionate desire to stretch this little porn star's cunt the first time, don't you think? Or is it already too late? Ha!

Do you like it when I think of you? Tell me how your masturbated for me in church today.

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

I guess you don't really need to feel all that different. Why would you change who you are? I'm sure Steve won't be disappointed with your Aunt while he watches your dad take his only child in the pussy. What a wonderful daughter you are!

You know me too well to tease me with Kathy AND her mother. That makes the choice of the next tribute easy. Any relationship?

And I shouldn't be surprised by your wedding gift request. I just hope it wasn't on the register! lol

For now, let me show you that I still think of you, especially on Sundays. Wish I had the camera in church today while looking at Amanda's legs crossed and skirt riding up high on her beautiful thighs with that glam hair cut. I thought you might want a peak as soon as I could get to my camera at home.

Last week was pretty good, too. Especially because playmate returned from summer break (I thought she had graduated) and was ready to play. It was obvious that she knew she was teasing me when playing with her skirt. I was sitting next to her for the first time because my wife unknowingly arranged it that way. Playmate smiled big when I rewarded her with extra attention at the expense of my wife who was sitting next to me on the opposite side. It crossed my mind that playmate may enjoy teasing married men about as much as you do.

But I know you would prefer to see what Cheri looked like on that day, so I made sure I took the last image for you after we got home. What would you have been thinking if you were sitting next to Cheri in church?  Do you like the way I caught that view of her tits from above?

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

Interesting. Anybody on Steve's side of the family fuck each other? Maybe Kathy can be a first with your dad? She's cute enough, and you know I can't resist a mother daughter pair when it comes to naughty stories, or tributes.

Speaking of that, I've got a new line on a little girl myself. A girl named Mikaela has caught my attention at church. She is 11 with the cutest little puffy tits poking through a training bra and hips beginning to respond to puberty. She is an open book when it comes to craving male attention to boost her self esteem, so she soaks up my attention after church when her mother is socializing with me or my wife. She was positively flirtatious this morning.  So I took the initiative and invited her and her 6 yo sister over to swim in our pool before the water gets too cool. I had meant it as an opportunity for her mom and dad to do something else (Kathy has already watched them once at the request of their mom and dad), but her mom took it as an invitation for the whole family. Oh, why not? It will surely make it easier to aim the camera, don't you think?

I'd like to figure out how to get a camera into church more often. It would be fun to show you playmate. Lately, it occurs to me that you and her may have some thoughts in common. But the last time I did caused a ruckus in the pew with Amanda. A cell phone is probably a better solution.

I agree, you deserve a wedding present of some kind. In the meantime, you wouldn't quibble about a tribute on Kathy sooner rather than later, would you?

Love,
Dan

*************************

Dear Kelly,

So what "sin" do I have to confess?

Well, it all started this morning as I was sitting in my bedroom watching Amanda lean against the bed talking to my wife who was still dressing. That's when I noticed that Amanda's short dress was stretched and the hem pulled up her shapely legs.

"Nice legs, Amanda" I said.

She said "thank you, daddy" but then followed with some smart reply as her redheaded temper likes to do.

I, of course, headed into the kitchen to find the camera. That's when I discovered the battery was dead. And so was the battery in the other camera! Desperate to get a working camera, I stuck the battery in the charger and hoped for the best.

A few minutes later I was rewarded with just enough juice to power up the camera, and that's when I caught all three of them fussing with the dog or, in Cheri's case, putting on a pair of tall stilettos. And by sheer luck there was Amanda with her skirt stretched and the hem pulled up just like earlier. So I got a few to share with you. You can't say I didn't try.

Unfortunately, the was all the battery could deliver on short notice and so I was forced to put it back into the charger and head to church sans camera.

Near the end of the service, I realized what a terrible blow that was. Cheri and my wife are co-teaching the second grade Sunday school this year and so the both of them were called up to the front of the church to receive a blessing for the coming school year. But Playmate also teaches a different youth class (she loves young children) and that's when I saw my dream pose:  Playmate, Cheri, and my wife standing next to each other with an opportunity for me to snap a picture without being a creep. But I had no camera! Arghhh!

And what a nice picture it would have been. Playmate and Cheri were dressed so much alike they could have been sisters. I commented later after lunch "Hey Cheri, did you notice that girl that sits in front of us [Ha! I don't call her 'Playmate' with them.] was dressed almost like you? She was in a blue top and black slacks, and you were in a red top with black slacks."

Both Cheri and her mom agreed. What a coincidence. Not to mention that Playmate had tall pumps just like Cheri. I marveled at their almost identical height standing next to each other. And all I could think of, while helplessly watching it all, was how cool it would have been to snap that picture with Playmate and Cheri next to each other just for you. Oh well, better luck next time.

And then later this afternoon, when I thought I might be left alone long enough to pull off my tribute on Kathy, I got drafted instead into helping my wife and daughters with some yard work at my Father-in-law's home. He is a nice guy, so I guess it was worth it.

Too bad for us though. But at least I got a few shots before the battery ran out this morning. I guess it will have to do for this weekend.

Chat soon maybe,
Dan


  
Dan - Dreams of Daughters and Little Girls